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V 



INDEX. 



. PAOB 

Andrbw Grav's Story 3^> 4^5 

An Early Methoditl. By E. Conder Gray . . 194 

Ann Tavlor and her Fiiendi. By E. Conder Gray . 555, 59* 
Aakcd of God. By tha Kev. W. £. Boardman . . .196 

Baslb and its Minion House. Pty W. G. Blaikia, D.D. . 450 
Beatitude of Wletnt, Tha. By John S. Howaon, D.D., 

Dean of Cbostor 564 

Bossy Wells. By Mn. Heni7 WMd, Aoduwtf "Bait 

Lyime," " Oswald Cray," &o. 

^ CaAP. I. Peter's Cowrt I 

II. Lower and Lower 4 

III. Going to tbe Green Fields ... 6 

IV. An ImpramptuloMneqp . . . .73 
V. A Glimpse ol AndlM . ... 76 

■ VI, An Accident 79 

VII. The Kioir ol Torron 145 

VIII. Fainting Amy 14? 

IX. Szfe is the BeautMnl Gardco . . .150 

X. At Rest 354 

XI. With Him to Aa EoA . .156 

Birthday at a Kindergarten, A. By Amie Beal« . . 31M 
Blind Man and tha Krrand Boy, The. By th* Rev. C. da 

BotDville a74 

nrother Ruthvrfont. By tbe Rivertide TMtor . Mi 

Bunyan and bia Pilgrim, About. By £. Conder Gray ■ 270 

Charlotte Elliott. By E. Conder Gray . . 
Children and the She-Bears, Th*-. By Geonce Fbillips, 

D.D., President of Qaeen'i College, Canfaridge . 193 
Chinpeway Indiana, HUsioB among the. By ne Rev. 

Dxniel Wilson, M.A., and H. L. Wilson 34*, J73, 455, 

516 

Cbiii^anity in the Hawaiian Islanib. By the Antbor of 

"llie Hawaiian Archipelago " . . . . 734, 846 
Charch Bees, The. By the Rev. Dr. Whcelor . . . a6 
Church of the fourth Century, The. By the Rev. John 
Gibb 

I. Constantine tbe Great 393 

a. Athanaiius the Great 521 

3. Basil the Great <,jj 

Clugiton, Mill, and her Work. By W. G. Blaikie.D.D. 337 
Colporteur in Irriand. Tba. By W. G. Blaikie, D.D. . zi 
ConquerinK and to Conqiier. Hr the Author of "The 
Chronidas of tbe Scbanberg-Cotbi Family " . 361, 433, 
.. .. 505,577 

Evht-Day Homilioa. Br tbe Rot. W. DaatoB, UJh. . 97 

F11U.0W- Workers. By tbe Rev. T, Nixon .... 767 
Fetishism among the Fantees. By A. B. Ellla . , . 63S 
Fetishism in Asbantee. Ky A. B. Ellis .... 705 
First Christmas Sermon, The. By W. G. Blaikie, D.D. 174 
Foreign Ffitc in Tjlrr's Court. By Anne Bcalo . . 513 
For Pity's Sake. By the Author ot "Kobort HoltFg 

Illusion," &C loj, *77, m, 317 

From Deep to Deep : Sketches of Criminal Lifib fijr H. 

A. Pairo 

I. Tbe Way to Prison 602 

9. In Prison 666 

3, At Associated Work 739 

4. Out of Prison Hij 

From my Note Bixdu By John Ker, DJ). 13b, S07, 379. jig, 

379, 5(14 

Fruitful Life, A. By E. Conder Gray . . . ,348 

Gbhknna of tbe Jews. By the Author of " Jewish Burial 

Rites," &c., Slc aoi, 3fls 

Glebe jackdaws. The. By the Rev. Dr. Wheeler . . 306 
Good for Evil. By the Author of " Episodes in an Ob- 
scure Life." 

Chap. I. Fire! Fire I. ...... 309 

II. Haunted 313 

III. Sacrilege 398 

IV. At Death's Door 401 

Harvist Praise. By Alexudn RaMgfarD.D. . . 18 
Hawaiian ItUnds, Heathenism in the. By IsshiiU 

Bird 

Chap. I. The Fire-Godilcss 598 

II. Worship, Prlestcnft, Beliefs . , .094 
Helplessnen of Modem Unbelief, The. By David Brown, 
D.D. 636 

Eniuaii ICisnons. By P. Y, Rdd 708 



PAOR 

Janbt Ma.Kon's Troubles ; A Stoiy'of Town and Country 

609, 649, 711, 793 

Jean M'Alister's Lost Bairn. By F. O. Wilson . . 830 
Johanna Chandler 679 

La Maison Svangtfliqne nt BnMUiaI> A VIstt to. By A. 

W. Adenay 276 

Idttle Essays. By the Author af " Papen fbrThon^tfU 
Oirls." 

I. The Duty of Deligbt 69 

II. The Grand Lesson of HvBllfqr . .346 

III. In the Sweat of tfao Brow . . . .316 

IV. Respect the Burden 444 

V. Ruts 546 

Little Hal^nny, By F. G. Wilson 753 

Little Jeanne. By Caroline North ..... 4* 
Little Spooney. By tbe Author of "^iWdM IB ait Ofc- 
scure Life." 

Chap. I. Henley's Row 537 

11. A Red Letter Day 539 

III. The Scholar and the WatciCfCS S Gill . 541 

IV. A 'A'peony a Boa S43 

V. In Hospital 03a 

VI. in tbe Countnr 635 

Livingstone and the Zambesi, Kecolhictioiuot By James 
Stewart, H.D. 

I. Off the Month of the Zambesi. ... to 

II. Up and Dawn tbn Mozambique . . ii 
III. We meet Or. Livingstone . . . . la 

, IV. Up tbe Zambesi to ^hupanga .... 15 

V. Events at bhupanga 91 

VI. Beyond the Frontiers of Civilisation . ■ 261 
VII. The Shire River and Valley . . . .477 
Till. Kulubve and Damaraseka's . .558 
IX. Bishop Mackencie's Grave .... 560 
Lord's Controveray, The. By the Rev. Professor Stanley 
Loathes, M.A 37 

MwLCY, not Sacrifice. By the Rev. Professor Stanley 
Laatkes. M.A afi? 

MilitaiT Note* OB the Battles of the Bible. By Captain 
Orde Browne, R.E 187, 780 

Missionary Honeer, A. By P. Y. Raid . . . • 33 

Monthly bnrroy. Our fis, 137, aog, aSi, 3S3. 4«3f W. 5^ 

, 713. 74S> %7 

Kbhbiiiah. By the Rev, O. S. tirnw, MA. . . 660, 770 

Orphans and Imbeciles. By H. A. Pago .... 52 
OurChildran. ^tho Author tf" Bessy WcUs" . 691^762, 

806 

Patkistic Notions cf Natnral Science. By V. G. 

Blaikie, D.D 841 

Pine-Cone, A. By the Rev. Hugh Macmillan, LL.D. 7146, 831 
Power of Association as a Means of Grace, Tsio. By tna 

Rev, Hugh Macmillan, LL.D 331 

Priaceas Man's Village, Addlcstoae, Tbe. By W. G. 

Blaikie, D.D. 419 

Prison without Walls, A. By H. A. Page . .115 

PropbcticalBooksottheOIdTestamont. ByW.Liadsay 

Alexander, D.D. 

I, Introductory 83 

II. Isaiab, Part I. 234 

III. Isaiah, Part IL ^Ha 

IV. Isaiah, Part II. (concludtdS . . .529 
V, Jeremiah 825 

RiuGious Life in the Foarteeoth Ctntmy. By Her. 
Professor Lindsay, D.D. 

I. TheDommican Preacher . .1 • • SB 
II, '1 be Great Layman ...... 12s 

HI. The Preacher of Kepentanoo . . . .161 

; JV. Tbe Flemish Cnrato . . . . 58S 

V. The Father Confessor . . . . il ■ 6S9 

SAKAdTAm, The. By Ae laM James Fibd . . 154, »S 
Savaeesof tlie Bay of Bengal, Tlie. By Geoiga Smith, 
LLC ......... 413, 540 

Self-made Missionary, A. By H, A. Pago .4^ 
Siavenr en tbe Gold Coast. ByA-B. Enis . .370 
Some Contrasts. By the " Jounie|man Ea^Beer" 

I. The Short Day 130 

II. Breakfast in the Shop . . . • S49 , 

Digitized by Google 



1 63864 



INDEX, 



PACE 

Some Contruti {eontiuveJ) — 

IV. Kpepinj tbe Seventh D«7 . . . . 6iq 
V. Without tbe Bread-winner .... 775 
VI. Providing for Kainy Da.ys . . .835 
Sotitli .Seas, Stariet ttom the, Bj the Rer. W. Wyau 

Gill, BJ^. - Sao 

Swin Guide, Our. Bj Viuncei Ridley Havargdl . ■ 47 



TisTiMOMBs from tbe Sooth Pacific. By A0 Rer. W. 

Wyatt Gill. B.A 440 

Text* witli a Hi*tory. By W. G. filaikie, D.D. . . 143 

UwREAusBo Visiont. By Henir AUon, U.D. . . , 486 

VuiOH, A Little ChUd's. By the Rev. Henry Dowotoa, 
M.A. ......... Itoj 



POETRY. 



Ontrain, 



Acceptance in Cbmt By W. T. McAulane . 
An Salter Dream. By C. Brooke . 
Ark in the Jordan, Ibe. By the Rev. G. & 
MA. ........ 

At Eventide it ahall be Light. 8y the Author of 
SchOnbeix-Cotta Family'' .... 

Auput on the Moontaiu. By Frucei R, Mavcrcal 
Auuuna Waminn. By Angiuta Webiter 
Uattle-Sonsofi^ith.A. ^A.L.W. . . 
Benediction, A. By C. Brooke .... 

Cb^B irf the Unwary, The. By A. L. W. . 
Chriatmu Viiiu. By F. Kocut 
Christ of God, The. By the Rev. G. S. Ontram, 
Clear November Day, A. By T. Blackntore . 
CompanioDi, Ihe. By E. Gander Gray . 
Darkened Spring. By Caroline North . . 
Dawn in the UonnUiDt. By Edith H. Alfbrd . 
Dreaming and Wakinj;. By Sarah Dondne]? . 
Embroiderv Fram^ The. By H. Betham -Edwards 
" For a Token." By C. Brooke .... 

Gain and Loss, By C. Brooke .... 

Gnidance. By the Rev. Henry DowntoD, MA> 



Harvest Elegy.^^ B«njaipio_ Gough 



" He is Iwtter, By A. H. Ixpp 

Hymn. By the Rev. George Mathefon, UA., B.D. 
In the Park. Aitce Hay Tenner 

Jesus and the Resurrection. Bv A. L. "W. 
Jesus, We Love Thee, By F. G. Wilson . 
Light. By J. Howe Jenkins 
Linnet, The. By Beqjanin Gongfa . 



j7 
447 



450 



The 

SI 

i» 

iif 

ifS 

192 
an 
M.A. 5«7 
. 88 
. Ill 
. t«S 

• 'IS 
. bSo 
. it« 
. tK), 

• jii 

■ Hi 

■ 8i5 
. lijr, 
. 148 

. a4i 
. 28 
. ato 
. 813 
- 7«» 



Little Church by the Sea, The. By the Rev. G. S. 

Ontram, U.A. 

Little While. A. By W. Kennedy Uoorr, D.D. . . 
Horning Musings. Bf the Rev. Grorgr Uutrau 
My ^beep hear my Voice. By Sarah Doudnev . . 
My Voice shalt thou hear in the Uoming. By the Rev. 

George MathcKin, M.A., B.D. 

Norwich, September, 1849. By One of the A ■ thors <rf 

" Poems lor a Child " 

Not Drifting. By Ihe Author of Ae '* Chronirles of tbo 

SchanbeT(f.CotU Family" 

Ortobrr. Ity £. Cornier Gray ...... 

Prodigal Keclalmed, The. lly A. L. W 

nomise of the Pmt^ce. llie. By the Author of " Chro* 

nidei oif the SchUnbcrg.Cotta Family " . . . 
^lovidence. I(y the Rev. Henry l>ownton, M.A. . . 
RcAtin Redbreast. By Benjamin Gough • . . . 

Sabbath Rest^ By B 

Song of the Country, A. By Professor John Stuart 

Blackie 

Sun of KighteouMiess, The. By the Rev. J. H. Abnhall, 

M.A. .......... 

Sunflower, The. By P. Y. Keid 

Thoughts of God, ihe. By Prances K. Havcrgal . 
Trissy, By Jane Bcicmcm ...... 

Way-side Spring, The. By neniamin Gough . . . 
Wioow's Mite, 'Ilie. By the Krv. George Oiitram, 

M.A 

W"ld Rose, The. By Benjamin Gough . . . . 
Winter. By Edith H. AUurd .' 



8)1 

704 

>' i 
48J 

8C6 

770 

3«<> 
41 

«V1 

M» 

«.S 

4t.i 
i"^ 
517 

^fn 

'380 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Bessy Wells. Eleven) - ( i, 7. 8, 73, »o. 

lustrations . . i ^- ^"'^ • • i r;,, 15., /s-i. 557 

Recollections of Dr.) . _ - 

Uvingrtone. Five T. SiUman . .\lJ' ^' 
lllnstiatious . .) ' 5«> . 

A Benediction . . 7*. StUmaH 35 

October .....41 

Our Swiss Guide.) 

Three Illustrations 1 49 

Asylum for Father- 
less Children, 
RMdhan 
Asylnm for I^ti, 

Eulswood . 
A Clear November 
Day 



Frvm Pkoiogropht 



S7 



y. BUiehUy 



R. W. Macbeik 



. 88 

105,118,177, 181, 
>I7, >i8, 214, 

ISI 

J.Blaic&Uy 129 

R.P.LtOch 135 

R'W. Fnuer iCo 



(105,1 

( j»7. , 



169 



Cheshire soo 



For Rty's Sake. Ten 
Illustrations . 

The Companions 
Autmnn Warnings . 
Morning in the 

Mountains 
Kobio Redbreast . 
The Embroidery 1 

Frame . . ) 

Ho is better, Ned 

Christmas Visits . A. Frater sji 

In the Park . y. Wattott aji 

Far'st mile of original! 
Woodcuts b thef 

■■Pil^m's Pro-f 

■»^t^ ! ! ; J.Cwlitle jSo 

Andrew Gray's ) fiSg, 196, 301, 380, 

Story. Nino 11- [ S** ^omMM . 383, o9».4fiSi 47Ji 

lustrations . .) (475 

Trissv ^ . . 10s 

Good for Evil. Three I > t- 

Illustrations. AJ'-A.FrMcr . . . 300,312,400 

Tba Snn-flower . F. Waiter 3M 



at 



From a Phoii'ittifk 



Large House 

Dunoon 
Conquering,' and to 

I'onqncr. Twelve 1 F. If. Lareu>n . 

Illustrations • 



to) (361, 
fc I F. If. Latrson . . i 438, 

Chireewny Indians.] r.Su/man . .j^JJ- 

Dr. William Elmslie Prom a Phologmpk 
The Savage* of the) » , 

Bay of Bengal. > ^fwn /"(io/pjfTW/Ai .jj'^' 
~" ations .) 



Six niustratii 



An Easter Dream 
James Hervcy . 
Sabbath Rest . 
Little Spooney 
Mn. Gilbert . 
Heathenism and ) 

Chriitianitv in the } T. Sulmam 

Hawaiian Islands; 



7. CaHislf: 
From a PoHmit 
R. W. Frater . 

From a Portrait 



■ 5i7, 

(600, 
•(736, 

60^, 



>^=^M«on'.Trou-j^_5^^^^ . .g; 



X. nr. Fwrr , 
R. W. Frasi-r . 



The Wild Rose 
A Song of dm 

Country 
Interior oi Cell with 

Loom 
Female Ccmvicts at 

Eaercise 
Brother RuOerford F.Bttmard 
Good-bye. . 
Convicts at Work . 
Dying -Summer . 
Little Haltpcony . 
Bringing in-ne<»-s . 
Intenor of Chil-) 

dren's Home, \ From a Sketth 

Winchester . .J 
Jean M' Alister*s 1 

Lost Bairn . . J " ' * ' 
Yard Club, A . . H. Frenek 



T. Su/mav 



y. llatiOM 
T, Su/mam 
R. (f. Ftvser 
H, French 
H.FrvKh 



• . 337 

364,368, 4-,,l. 
440, JO'i.S^'''^. 

577, 5"'. 5"* 
.■345.34<'.37'>. 
455>457> 4S3t 

. 409 
416, 417,53a. 

. . 4l« 
. 

5^o.5^4. 

. 5''i 

694,606, G97, 
737. 848, P49 

610,616. 6|9, 
('5(>, 7»i, 7»2, 
7153, Soi, No; 
. . Ors 
. . 065 

(G70 

, t8i,688 
. w,j 

• 74t 
. 752 

• 777 
. 817 



83» 
64a 



Digitized 'by 



Google J ' 




BESSY WELLS. 

By Mas. HENRY WOOD, Author of "East Lvnnk," "Oswald Crav," etc. 



CHAPTER I. — Peter's court, 

T was a 
sight 
that 

you 
might 
perhaps 
some- 
time 
see in a 
p a i n t- 

i n g, 
only 
that 
painters 
,do not 
care to 
repre- 
sent 
scenes 
so low 
and 
miser- 
ab 1 e; 

but you may never come in contact with 
it in real life. The place was called 

IV. N.S. 




Peter's Court, probably after the Chris- 
tian name of its builder ; and it lay in 
a densely populated part of London, some- 
where between Oxford Streat and the Strand. 
The locality was bad, for the poorest of 
people inhabited it, and the dwellings they 
had to live in were dreadful. 

Turning out of a narrow street of shops 
into a still narrower thoroughfare, called 
Dart Street — which indeed could not be 
styled a street except by courtesy — where 
might be seen sgme shops also, but very 
mean ones, and where the mud and the 
refuse, the children and the cabbage-stalks, 
lay thick on the ground, you came presently 
to Peter's Court. Dart Street was generally 
in a crowded condition. Men and women 
stood about it perpetually : the men with 
short pipes in their mouths and often ugly 
words ; the women with hanging hair and 
shrill tongues ; and both with more rags on 
their backs than decent clothes. Some few 
among them were industrious and tidy — at 
least, as tidy as people could be in such a 
locality; but the greater number of them 
were idle and improvident, working to-day, 
playing and drinking to-morrow ^ and a^i^j^gj^^ 



3 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



did not attempt to work at all, but picked 
up a living how they could. But there are 
some places in London worse even than this, 
where the inhabitants are chiefly thieves and 
pickpockets : the people we are now speak- 
ing of must not be confounded «kh them. 

Some considerable way do^'n Dart Street 
was a small archway, on the left-hand side : 
it was the enttasce to Peter's Court. The 
court was not « tlioroi^^\^e ; ks oHier end 
was blocked up «^ buildmjs. Us houses 
were high, overhanging tenements, built on 
each side the uneven pathway, acd built £0 
closely that their front walk seemed nearly 
to meet Womeo leaaios out <9f die upper 
windows couid tfretdi ibcix hands acmes 
and nearly touch each other. The court- 
pathway was only a few feet ia width ; and 
people traversiDg it nntst throw their necks 
backwards and look straight upwards if they 
wanted to see the sky. 

Of the pure fresh air, given to us so freely 
by God, these houses in Peter's Court got 
none ; and yet they were all stuffed as full of 
human beings as they could hold ; for the 
rents were low, as compared witli similar 
places. Peter's Court had a name for low 
rents, and was tenanted accordingly. Few 
of the families rented more than one room j 
some not as much, for they shared it with 
others : how full that one room often was, 
and how many people in all inhabited one of 
these houses, I should not like to say. As a 
matter of course, Peter's Court was never free 
from illness; epidemics and otiier sidtness 
did not quit it. It was simply impossible to 
be healthy there, and death was sp frequent 
tiiat it was not much dioi^ht of. 

The rooms were aJl front rooms ; for the 
houses, though high, were veiy narrow ; the 
bade widls were built agakist other dead 
walls, and had no windows and no openings ; 
consequently die houses could not get a 
thorough draught through them from year's 
end to year's end, fVf think it is not well 
unless our windows are open all day and 
every day, to Imng a change of fresh air into 
our dwelimgs ; what, then, must it have been 
for these poor people tutw to have any ! 
The staircases were old axid dirly, gettmg as 
little of cleaning as the houses did d air. 
For, the slatt«nly women gave not their minds 
to the scouring of places that did not belong 
to anybody in particular, under which disad- 
vantage the stairs laboured - and if on^ more 
complaisant or industrious tihan her neigh- 
bours, had thought to do it, she would not 
have known where to get the so^ and water. 

As a rule, those who had lived all their 



lives in this or a similar locality, did not feel 
so very much the discomforts and the Lie- 
gradation. But those who had been accus- 
tomed to belter things, and who had fallen 
into this position tluough misfortune or im- 
providence, felt it all too keenly. And there 
were some of these eren in Peter's Court. 

One hot morning m July, when the sun 
seemed to shine throu^ a haze of burning 
sultiiDess, and not a Iveath of wind could I)c 
met to ifau people's faces, tingling with the 
heal, a number of children were playing, 
running, shoutii^ and shrieking in Dart 
Street. They weme moenly onljr half clad, 
their wM hair feU around thcar pale, un- 
wholesooae, and diity dieeks ; many of them 
had naked feet Soase bettrnged to Peter's 
Court. COOK to Dut Street; but Dart Street 
was the gener^ play place : the Coust lacked 
space for it. 

The game they had chosen was a stran^'c 
one, not at all plcastat They seemed to 
lind it so, howevo-, for it was one they often 
played at ; and the shouts and laughter were 
just as eager as though it had called up the 
most delightful ideas. A child, boy or girl, 
stretched itself out as stiflf as it could, shut its 
eyes, kept silence, and made believe to be 
dead. It was then borne aloft up Dart Street 
by as many liands as could find space to put 
themselves under it, and at a given signal 
was turned over into its grave — the mud of 
the gutter. Up it jumped then, and joincLl 
in the general shrieks and dancing that set 
in, as the whole lot ran back to the starting- 
pomt, the archway entrance to Peter's Court. 

" It's my turn to be dead ! it*« my turn to 
be dead I" called out a little boy from amid 
the Babel of tongues. 

Upon which those nearest him gave him 
some pushes and blows. These untrained 
children could but be rude and rough. 

*'Take Kat Tissen," cried out a voice. 
And the suggestion appeared to please, for 
several others echoed it So Kat T^sen 
was chosen. 

Numberless brown and dirty hands seized 
upon her, after a general fight for the honour, 
and bore her along. Those who were pushtd 
out dustered up behind as followers, repLMt- 
ing their sing-song,— 

*' Kat Tissen's dead. Let's buty her." 

It must seem quite an unnatural thing tliat 
any diildren should be capable of choosing 
so unpleasant a game as tliis — just as it did 
when the prisoners in the French Rev(^tion 
used to play at that horrible play of mount- 
ing the scaffold, which so very many of them 
were scxin to mount in reality. But these 



BESSY WELLS. 3 



poor childrea -were growing- up almost irith- 
out feding, Peter's Court tending to dea>den 
it Of toys f£tkey had none. 

It must not be ei^poaed tint ihey could 
plaf At "dus game, or at any <^er requirmg 
^laoe and sction, vitiiout impednnQni;. 
Narrow Dart Street was too tiill of grawn-up 
idkis for thal--of lounging men and alat 
temly women. The children had to make 
tbeir way amid tfaem as they best could ; aoxi 
they did it ludely, not caiing whom tlacy 
elbowed and pushed. They veceivied in ntuiga 
a popetual Bhowier of abu&e nndiiaid blows, 
for which they cased as little. 

Kot mixing with the throng of layers, 
but limpnng onnwds a yanl or two ^hind 
them the aid of a crutch, came a ilittle 
gid, wbo Jiad just turned ent Peter's 
Court Ho- name was Bes^ and she 
ha-d become lame from a fail mbiai sbe mts a , 
very young child. She looked about ten or 
eleven yeacs but she may ^lare been 
more. Sbe was small and slij^t for ber 
yeaK ; a. pleasant-Ciced daild, quite diflferoit 
in appear&ncs from tbe icBt, to* -she was dean ' 
and tady. Her Stock and pmafor-e were of 
dark lilac ptinL She had a pale faoe, with a 
dear brown skm ; bright soft blown eyes, 
that had a satutaUy-ead look in tbem ; aad 
brown hair, put smoothly bdiind her eaxs. 
When sike choee she could run fast, nearly as 
hst as the others, her crutch moving nimbly ; 
and it seemed that die k^ b^uid now 
more from. fear <tf bang pushed about tlian 
firom iack of ^peed, 

Kat Tissen was turned over into the mild < 
v^en she had been canied far eciougfa, and 
the tbnmg flew bade along Dart Stnet as 
bdbre. Besey Wells drew herself flat gainst 
the wall to let them pass, and then limped 
after them, still ke^ung at a distance. The 
child felt the great need of ccHopanions, as 
all childiien do fed, and sbe had never had 
any but these as IcHig as she could remember ; 
but she felt half afraid of them always, and 
was quite afraid of aa£0>imtenng their rough 
wage. 

« Hiere's Bessy Wdls ! " called out a big 
boy, who had put h^ back against the aidt 
way, lus eyes t^ppening to light upcm Bessy, 
as she went cautioudy up. "Let's bury 
Bessy Wells!" 

" Oh, DO no ; not me" cried Bessy in an 
impulse of fear as she caught the words. 
" Please not me. I'm not really playing, you 
know, Jim ; I'm only watchuc^." 

A tremendous laugh answered her, and she 
"was eauTouaded. Her woodim crutch was 
thrown aside ; she was lifted up in spite of 



ber earnest pleadings to be let aJone, and the ' 
procession started again. 

" Bessy Welis is dead. Let's go and bury 

her ! You still your noise, Bes^ Wellfi ; 

you be dead, you know." 

Over vent Bessy- ioto the waterof ^ 'dinCy 
goAtf, just as rou^y as i^ose 11^ bad bee» 
flung in it -before her. It did not buit ber 
xBoch — though it nught tuive doxie — but it 
had wetted her fiieck and pinafore ; wfaidi, if 
old and nothing to boast of, had been at least* 
dry. Her assailants rushed off, leaving her 
to get up ^one: as she soon did. She could 
wade a tittle way without her cxutdi ; aad she 
set off in search of it, holding by the boMes 
BOW and then as she went along. 

Before ^ had gone many steps, a polico- 
man, who had teen etiidaskg quickly down 
Dart Street, overtook her. At mght of ham 
die noisy fiy disappeared np Peter's Gonrt, 
taking rafitgc in its nooks aod doorways. 
Broug^ up to Tegaid policemen as their 
natunl enemies, and this oae potioeaBan as 
especially so, his face was never welcome. 
He had a way of appearing in Dart Street, 
and in the Court also, -without warning, and 
at all kinds of unseasonable tiaaes ; and he 
l^oi^ht nothing of boxing iJieir eaPE. For 
the Kuetter of that, some of the men and 
women seemed mot to care to see hin either, 
for they disappeared likewise. 

" What a ufuoar's a goiog on down here 
again this morning ! " be began to Bessy witii 
much show of fierceness. " Why were you a 
scieediing out like that on the gutiier? What 
d'ye mean by it ?" 

" Please, ^ir, it wasn't me that screeched 
oat in the ^;U:ter,*' answered Besey, with much 
awe ; but yet not altogether sorry to see him, 
for at least she was now -not liable to be 
tossed a second time — and, as sbe knew, the 
v€fry fact of her dreadmg it would have 
brought her a second edition. " It was the 
others that shouted out, sir ; ^y iteew me 
down." 

" What business had they to tfanmr you 
down?" questicmed the pfdtcenon as tfaey 
walked on. He knew she was not fit &x 
that rough kind of pastime. 

" It was in pixf, m" answoed Bess^ 
meekly. 

" Here's your crutdi,** said %e, piduag it 
up for her out Aie gutter, and sbaking the wet 

from it. "And the best thing you -can do, 
Bessy Wells, is to stop in-doots out o' the 
way o' them young wild beasts. You^ get 
damaged by 'em some day if you don'L" 

" It is so dull, sir," she said, rather pite- 
ously ; " father's hardly ever at home. And 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



the doctor said I was to get out into the 
fresh air." 

The policeman said something under his 
breath about the father, not at all in his 
favour: he knev Roger WeUs of old. Stalk- 
ing up Peter's Court, with a view of striking 
terror on th& troublesome young fry hiding 
there, he went on slowly, turning his head 
from side to side; and Bessy, following 
behind, slipped into her home. 

Home! 

CHAPTER II. — LOWER AND LOWER. 

Bessy's home stood on the left hand, 
nearly at the end of Peter's Court. Up the 
rotten and dirty stairs she went, into one of 
the topmost rooms. And if these upper 
rooms had the advantage of somewhat more 
li^ht and air— for when the rickety casement 
wmdow was propped open, a bit of the "blue 
sky could be seen over the opposite roofs — 
they had also die disadvantage of recaving 
all the smells and the bad airirom the rooms 
below. 

Roger Wells had no business to be living 
in Peter's Court. That he was obliged to 
live in such a place, if he lived anywhere, 
was his own fault He was an intelligent, 
capable man, and could have earned a very 
good living ; but he had suffered himself to 
lapse by d^ees into evil habits. He would 
be drinking and idling when he ought to be 
working; and so, he came to rack and ruin. 
Nodiing is more insidious than these inter- 
ludes of idleness, this wasting of precious 
time. Easily and imperraptibly they gain 
upon us, and grow into a habit sdl too soon ; 
and in most cases the habit becomes fixed. 
It was the case with Roger Wells. 

In vain his wife, a thoughtful, good, superior 
woman, had besought him in past years to 
amend his ways before it was too late. He 
was well-intentioned then, and would listen, 
and make promises ; but it was only for the 
moment. Before Bessy was quite two years 
old, their home, a very nice one, was broken 
up. Qther homra were tried in succession, 
one after another, each one being lower in 
the scale of civilisation than the las^ and 
Roger Wells getting Iow«: and lower with 
them. At length he broi^^ht his wife and 
Bessy to Pfter's Court. It was the worst 
degradation of all, and the wife felt it bitterly. 
But she strove to be ever a good wife to 
him ; to bear all patiently. 

Mrs. Wells had been brought up well and 
respectably. Her father was clerk in a 
country church, an intellectual man who took 
care of his diUdren. She went into service 



in the Squire's family, and left it to many 
Roger Wells. That was the worst day's 
work she ever did ; but, as she would silently 
ask herself in later life, aUer all the evil had 
come, how was she to foresee that Roger 
would turn out as he did ? . She had come to 
London with die Squire's family, and met 
him there. He was an upright, good-looking, 
steady young man then, eaming a good 
living, and everybody thought she did well 
when she married him. Soon bad com- 
panions laid hold of him, and he was weak 
enough to allow himself to fall into their im- 
provident ways. After that, it went on from 
bad to worse ; from poor lodging to poorer ; 
and at last they were reduced to Peter's 
Court. Had Mrs. Wells seen that court in a 
panorama, when she was in her country home 
in early life, she would not have believed it 
Xiossible for human beings to eidst there. 

Soon a&ti they removed to Peter's Court 
Mrs. Wells had a bad attack cS iheumatic 
fever. It settled in her limbs, and she was 
never able to make much use of her hands 
afterwards, or to walk without difficulty. So 
that, during the several years of her remaining 
life, though she could manage to creep out 
to Dart Street to get in necessaries from the 
small shops there, she did not venttu'e farther ; 
and it was a positive fact that Bess^ at the 
present time had never been half a mile away 
from her home in any direction ; indeed she 
could not remember to have gone much 
beyond Dart Street. In that miserable home 
in Peter's Court poor Mrs. Wells bad lived ; 
alwajrs padent, always enduring, and alwajrs 
hoping for brighter dajrs. She went on 
hoping for them until she died ; at least until 
within a week or two of it : without that hope 
to buoy her heart up, she might have died 
earlier. It was about six months ago now ; 
and since then poor Bessy had been manager 
of their one room, and of the scanty daily 
meals (when they got a meal) in her mo£het^ 
place. 

Perhaps the incapability of getting about 
much, aided Mrs. Wells's natural instincts to 
keep heraelf and Bessy aloof from the people 
amid whom diey were thrown. Day after 
day, week after week, year after year, mother 
and c^iild confined themselves within those 
four small walls, the door closely shut, the 
window open. On the days that Mrs. Wells 
had the money (it was not always) to go out 
to get a loaf of bread, or a morsel of tea and 
sugar, or a drop of milk, or perhaps the 
unusual dainty of a red herring, she rarely, 
took Bessy with her. When the child was 
younger there was a diflicultv4(i getting, her 

Diaifeed bvl^OOQlC 



BESSY WELLS. 



S 



np and down stairs on account of her lame- 
ness, and Mrs. Wells could not carry her. 
So that one top room, with the glimpse of the 
blue sky over the opposite roofs, was essen- 
tially the child's home, nearly all she knew 
of the world. She would sit near the open 
window listening to the children playing 
and shouting below, and often wish to be 
with them, playing too; but then some 
dreadful quarrel would be sure to take place, 
either amid the children or the grown-up 
people, sometimes a fight ; and Bessy would 
run away from the window to hide her head, 
and feel glad that she was not there. 

Bessy was brought up very differently from 
those other children. Her mother, unable 
to do anything to earn a living, had full 
leisure to attend to Bessy. When the poor 
wife tried to do a bit of sewing, her crippled 
and nearly useless fingers would be half a 
day doing what other w<»nen could do in an 
hour. 

She taught Bessy all she knew herself — 
to read and write, to spell, to sew; above 
all, she taught her about God. When Bessy 
was little she had to lie down a great 
deal, in the bed or on it ; sometimes for a 
week together she would never be up ; and 
her mother would sit by her bedside and tell 
her all about heaven. Every day the mother 
read to her out of the little Testament ; when 
Sessy was old enough she read it for herself. 
It had to be kept in Mrs. Wells's pocket, lest 
Roger should see it and pledge it. Any 
small thing of that sort that he could make a 
few halfpence on he was sure to take. Some 
other books, that had been the raotiier's when 
she was young, were kept openly, for they 
were too old— the covers of them mostly 
torn — to be of use to him. They were all 
what are called religious tales, and were 
written by Mrs. Sherwood or Mrs. Cameron. 
One of these books most especially interested 
Bessy; it was called, "Mrs. Propriety and 
her Little Scholars," a story about a village 
school and the various doings of the little 
pupils. Bessy read that book over and over 
and over again ; even when she could have 
repeated it by heart, nearly line for line, she 
never tired of reading it. Poor little girl ! in 
all the world she had but these books to give 
her pleasure ; no toys, no playthings of any 
kind ; and in regard to the world uie was as 
ignorant as a baby. 

So there they had lived. In Peter's Court, 
but not of it ; for Bessy was indeed different, 
and taught to be different, from those around 
her. Many a little lady is not brought up, 
in regard to teaching and training, more 



carefully than was Bessy. Some relatives of 
Mrs. Wells, who lived far away, nearly at 
one end of England, would now and then 
send h^ a little money privately ; it had 
enabled her to keep Bessy tolerably well off 
for clothes, and to provide some few otha: 
things that she did not see how they could 
have done without. So that, in that respect, 
they were somewhat better off than their 
neighbours. 

The only person they saw as a regular 
visitor was Jenny, the Bible woman. Some 
one or other of the women tenanting the 
same house would look in occasionally, espe- 
cially after the time that Mrs. Wells became 
so weak as to take to her bed ; but as a rule 
they had only Jenny. Jenny would talk to 
Mrs. Wdls of heaven — everybody knew that 
she was very soon going to it — just as Mrs. 
Wells talked to Bessjr of it ; and Bessy would 
sit on the floor listening to what they said, 
her pretty, sad, dark eyes cast up to them, 
her small thin hands folded on her pinafore 
in silence. But, in spite of all the listenings, 
and readings, and teachings, Bessy's ideas of 
heaven were just as vague as they could well 
be. She was apt to associate it with a lovely 
garden she once saw in a picture ; she thought 
it must be filled with sunshine and flowers — 
with sweet music to listen to, and sweetmeats 
to* eat Sun^ine, and flowers, and music 
(save some rare street organ straying .into 
Peters Court) were things far apart from 
Bessy's life ; of sweetmeats she got none, or 
indeed of much else in the shape of eatables. 
Rc^er Wells did not trouble himself to do 
more work than would pay for the ale he 
chose to drink, and just keeg the wolf from 
the door. He was bad enough, but there 
are some husbands worse than even he. He 
did care for his wife and child ; he did not 
want them to starve. Often he wished they 
were better ofl^ often resolved that they 
should be; and perhaps for a day or two 
he would stick well to his work; but the 
example of other idle men was stronger 
than his resolution, and he would fall away 
again. 

After the mother's death, which took place 
in winter, Bessy found the room too lonely, 
and the poor little lame girl would steal down- 
stairs and out of doors for companionship. 
During the time that her mother lay ill — 
which was only for some two or three weeks 
before her death — it was Bessy who did the 
errands ; and by these means she became 
more familiar with the life outside, the un- 
dvilised people and the rude children. But 
any scene of unusual turmoil, any Ipu d quarrel . 

niniti7PH hyC^OQgiC 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



or fi^t, would drive her back to her room 
»gMn. The cMM's condition was to be pitied : 
she inslinctirely dreaded and shrunk fiom 
the low life aronnd her, but she could not 
well bear the soHtariness of that chamber 
BOW that her mother was ho Icmger in it. 
Though weak, and small in frame, and though 
so utterly inexperienced in the world and 
woridly things, Bessy Wells was in mind and 
thought older than her years. 

Her mother had trained her to industrious 
and tidy ways, so far as the child's strength 
allowed ; had taught her to cook and clean, 
and to keep ber clothes hn order — if, indeed, 
snch cooking as they could aSiard could be 
worthy of the name ; a herring, toasted before 
the fire in the small Dutch oven, or a slice of 
bacon, or a couple of sausages ; and potatoes, 
boiled in the old saucepan. Bessy's lameness 
did not hindee her from scouring the floor, 
but she often had to do it with plain water, 
for lack of the halfpence to buy soap or soda ; 
and of water there was none too much, Peter's 
Coart had but a nuseraUe supply of it. She 
darned her stockings and patched her clothes^ 
md kept herself as neat as those poor clothes 
permitted ; but in that respect, as in many 
other respects, she was better off than the 
general lagamufftos outside. Roger Wells 
bad been rather more steady since his wife's 
death, for he was fond of his little daughter, 
and ,<Ud not quUe neglect her. 

When Bessy came up-s«airs on tliis day, 
after the policeman had passed on to the end 
of the courts it was past eleven, nearly time 
to be getting the dimier ready. She sat down 
on her knr wooden stool for a minute or two, 
nibbed her left arm, which had been a little 
bruised in th<f fall, hang her pinafore up to 
dry on a piece of string that was stretched 
across a corner of the room, and strove to 
wring the wet out of her poor frock. Her 
Uttle mattress, almost too short &nd narrow 
for her now, was in the opposite comer : the 
bed that used to be her mother's was rolled 
up during the day. Two chairs, with the 
backs broken aS ; a small round table, that 
Wells had to nail and tinker up perpetually ; 
an old wooden box, that their clothes were 
kept in; and an earthenware pan, for the bread 
and other food ; these comprised the chief 
articles of the apartment. On a shelf against 
the wall stood two or three plates and cups ; 
some coal, and part of a bundle of wood, lay 
in a straw basket against the fireplace. And 
thb was quite a grand and comfortable room 
compared with most of the rooms in Peter's 
Court ; almost a palace beside them, as to its 
fiimiture and conveniences. 



CHAPTER III. — GOING TO THE GREEN FIELDS. 

Besst Wells took a few of these bits of 
wood, some nobs of coal, and a piece of a 
newspaper, laid the fire with them, and set it 
alighL Roger 'Wells must bring home his 
weekly newspaper ; and when he had done 
with it, it was at Bessy's service to tear up 
for the fire. While the sticks and coal were 
burmsg up, she took some potatoes out of the 
earthenware pan and scraped them. New 
potatoes, Bessy had bought that morning for 
the first time, when she went out alter break- 
fast to do her marketing ; but the old ones 
were getting too bad to be used. We may 
be quite sure that the best potatoes, whethiT 
old or new, did not find their way to Dart 
Street Bessf had not forgotten that her 
mother used to make it a kind of f£te day 
when they first had new potatoes and invari- 
ably contrived to add some ddicacy to tliem. 
Bessy had done the same to-day : she strove 
to follow all her mother's ways and precepts 
as closely as she could ; and she had brought 
home two sausages. When the dock struck 
twelve, the potatoes were nearly done, and 
the sausages were frizzling in the Dutch-oven. 
With a very small fire, such as this, cooking 
takes longer than with our large ones. 

" Now, if father would but just -come I" 
thought the child, as she put the plates on 
the table. " ^Vhat a thing it would be if he 
did not come home at all to-day ! " 

For there were dinner-times that did not 
bring Roger Wells. And on those days, oa 
BesAy had long ago leant to notice, he was 
sure to make his appearance at night with a 
flushed face and thick voice; oftener than not, 
with unsteady steps. 

To-day she was not to be disappointed. 
Hardly had the thought passed through her 
mind when the door opened, and he came im 
A short, spare man with a greyish look in his 
face ; a face that was once so pleasant ; good 
features^ a fair complexion, and thin lips. 
He took off his fustian coat, and seemed to 
have been hard at work. In his hand he 
broui^ht in a pewter pint measure full of 
porter. 

" Halloa ! new potatoes ! " he exclaimed, 
as Bessy turned the contents of the small tin 
saucepan into a plate. It was as much as her 
two hands could accomplish : they were not 
as strong as other people's. 

" The old ones won't do any longer, father, 
and these are the cheapest in the end : so 
much of them had to be cut away. I've got 
some sausages to eat with them." 

" Tlicre's my good little girl ! ** said he. 



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B£SS-y WELLS. 



The sausages were put on the potatoes, aod 
the few drops of fiat in the Dtrtch-oven turned 
over all, A dinner, in B«sa/a estimation, fit 
for a prince. Rogar Wells sat down to it. 
Bessy began to dry the saacepaii. 

" Come along, child. Don't stay tliere." 

" Just leave a potato for me, father. It'll 
<lo." 

He put some of the potatoes and the best 
port a sausage oa hec plate, and bade her 
come then to her dinner. Some of the ch^ 
dren outside had terribly har^ and cruel 
fathers, but Roger Wells was never haish to 
Bessy. He would have liked her — oh, how 
greatly! — to possess every comfort and to 
live is a better place than Peter's Court. And 
this might have come to pass had he chosen 
to be more industrious himself, and less self- 
inchilgent. 

What bnags four frocfc m that state?" 
he asked, aa she sat down ob the floor wMk 
the ^te on ber lap, ami b^n to eat wifii 
her fingers. And this vaf not from any 
filorenfy habit. Poor Bcsvf ktd been analite 
for yean when she wnyoaaga to sit at a 
tabte;aadheraBotfaerAadidlawtdherto eat 
in An wafy as it was tfic easiest to hsr. Not 
hot iriut coold usea ladfeaadfbrkBov j 
and die sat at the table aomecnvK. fools 
as if il had been all in a wet mess."' 

** Thtf threw me iano the gndcr, fittbet." 

"Who did?" 

** Some a( ihtmoaSsiAc. Icwai only done 
in play." 

She did not give any nsmes, jcm observe. 
She wa» c:^r to add that it was " only done 
in play.** Ses^f IV^dTs was natasaUr kind, 
and her mother bad taught her to Mrrre ever 
to be aot, I Amk it is only m ^reat adver- 
si!y &at we acquire that true Iimi^-kindness 
to oar fcifenr-creatures which is so great a 

Moreover, in so * speaking, Bessy had 
another motive. Once or twice, when it had 
come to Roger Wells's knowledge that some 
swarm or other of the street diildren had 
been rough with his little afflicted girl, he had 
gone out and pommelled them soundly, which 
liad brought forth no end of general quarrel- 
ling and disturbance with the parents. And 
that distressed and frightened Bessy. She 
was strangely sensitive. 

"You'd do well to keep out of their 
reach," said he, alluding to the children, 
"They be a bad, rude lot" 

" It is so lonely up here, father, now 
mother's gone." 

" You've told me that afore," said he fret- 
folly, for his conscience warned him that he 



might be at home with her more than he was 
— only, you see, there were the attractions of 
the public-houae. " You needn't mix your- 
self up with their rough play. If you'd just 
sit quiet on a door-step out there, they'd let 
you alone fast eaou^" 

" I wish we had a greeu' fidd here, father, 
with buttercups and daoies in it." 

Roger Wellsj turning the half ci las last 
potato round and round his plate, to catch 
up any paftide of fat that might yet lii^ 
there, let it rest on Ihc end of his fork wmle 
he turned his eyes on Bessy. 

" What has put that into your head?" he 
asked. "A green field?" 

"Ann and Becca SimnKtt told rae this 
morning, father, whea I was there buying the 
potatoes : they went out yestcnj^ in a van, a 
great many of them, and ran aboat the fields 
alt day. I should like to sit in the green 
fidds. Mother used to talk about the butter- 
cups and daisies, and the bhidMfis and the 
pink dower." 

" Yoa shall go some ttme," cud ke. 

" Fleme, father. Jast for onccu If I cobtd 
see tkcB oniy omx, 1 shonM dways hare 
theM to thfidc o£ I irah theie was a fidd 
seal eflom^ isr me to get to it. Motbcr 
saitf some of flie hedges woe aU of rwcci* 
aneffin^ leaves called swcettwiar. with paik 
and wiote roses groinii^ oat of it that any- 
body mi^. fKfc.' 

In tn^ ke wodd bate been glad tot the 
chdd to be sear so open aad healthy a place 
as a grcca field, &at ske a^hl sit in it to 
inliafc Ae fireak and pmc auv Snce her 
raotter Aed, he had tsice taken Bessy to the 
diqieaaaiy doctor^ jmt out of Dart Street. 
The dcctcv tcrfd ^m that firesh air was essen- 
tial tot her and mi^t prolong her I^e, but 
that in any case he thought she would not 
live very long. Poor Bessy was often in pain, 
and always wan and weak. An idea began 
floating tlu-ough the mind of Roger Wells, 
now as Bessy spoke, that he would take her 
himself, " one of these days," to some green 
field or other beyond London, and let her 
enjoy herself in it for a few hours. His 
instincts for the child" were always good, but 
he very rarely carried them out. 

"We'll see about the green field some 
day, Bessy," he said. " Yon go out and sit 
on a door-step this hot weather, and get what 
air you can. And mind you keep yourself 
away from them other rough ones," he added, 
putting on ^is coat to take his departure. 
" They'll leave you alone if you take no 
notice of 'em. If the>' don't^ just tell me-^ 
thafs all.** ^ 



8 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



"Shall you come in at six, father?" she 
asked timidly. 

"Oh I shall come in," he answered, shut- 
ting the door after him, and going down- 
stairs. But, as Bessy knew, he was just as 
likely not to come in ; he rarely did. And 
if he did come in at six once in a way when 
^he working hours were over, he was sure to 
go out again. 

She put the room to rights, and then sat 
down to her work \ some garment or other 
that wanted a patch upon it. At Ave o'clock 
the child cut herself a slice of bread and 



drank some milk and water. Then she took 
up one of her most precious store of books ; 
it was " Mrs. Propriety." The time went by ; 
six o'clock struck, and she read on still, partly 
listening for her father's step on the stairs all 
the while. 

But she listened in vain. Six o'clock had 
long passed, and seven struck. The little 
girl, tired of waiting and listening, went down. 

Dart Street was swarming as she turned 
into it It was the time when the men, 
women, and children all seemed to congre- 
gate there. Their close dens of rooms were 




rage 10, 



always closer and hotter towards evening, and 
they instinctively turned out of them. Dart 
Street had not much fresh air, but the rooms 
had less. 

The houses were built irregularly. Some 
of them had steps to their doors, some had 
none ; on the contrary, you had to dive down 
an incline to enter them. On the opposite 
side to the archway, a little highw up, was a 
low old house with a sloping roof and gable 
windows, so low that a good glimpse of the 
sky could be seen above it. Bessy used to 
fancy that the air was less heavy when she 



stood opposite that low house, and would 
often remain there a little while leaning on 
her crutch. She could not sit there, for the 
house that faced it had too high a doorstep 
to admit of her sitting down upon. Many a 
little child had pitched off that high stone 
step, which slanted downwards, and damaged 
its nose. The nearer houses on either side 
it had not steps at all, affording no resting- 
place for tired Bessy. 

But there were doorsteps in plenty higher 
up ; and Bessy was quickly threading her 
way through the throng towards one, when 



BESSY WELLS. 



she chanced to place her crutch upon a man's 
foot, who had no upper leather, to speak of, 
to his shoe. He swore at her, and raved out 
many hard and ugly words ; and she hastened 
on ^vering» past all the doorsteps. 

She came to an anchor by the small green- 
groceiysbed: Simmett's. The greengrocer's 
two girls stood at the door, and Bessy sat 
herself flat on the pavement by them, hoping 
to hesu: more about the green fields that had 
laid so great hold of her imagination. The 
girls talked freely : the previous day's unusual 
pleasure was yet fresh in their minds. 

" We be agoing again to-morrow," sud- 
denly announced Ann Simmett. 

The words caused a flutter in Bessy's 
heart. Going again to-moirow! To those 
beautiful green fields I 

"Could you let me go too?" she ques- 
tioned, very timidly. 

"Ill ask mother/' replied Ann, a good- 
natured girl id>out Bessy's age. And she 
turned to run past the two or three small 
heaps of potatoes, to where Mrs. Simmett 
stood at the back of the shed amid the coal, 
gossiping with some other women. 

" Mother, can Bessy Wells go along with 
us in the van to-moirow?" 

" What ?" demanded Mrs. Simmett, when 
the question had been called out to her for 
the fourth time. | 

" Bessy Wells wants to know if she can go 
along with us to the green fields to-morrow ?" 
repeated Ann. 

" There ; be off/* answered Mrs. Simmett, 
a great deal too. busy with her talking to like 
the interruption. "Bessy Wells can go if 
you go. Don't bother.'* 

Every word of the answer had come with a 
clear sound to Bessy's ear, through the small 
shed, and her heart gave a wild leap of joy 
and hope. Children are not given to be doubt- 
ful ; they believe implicitly. Where, indeed, 
they have leamt by sad experience that their 
parents are not trustworthy, it may be differ- 
ent ; but Bessy's experience did not lie in 
doubt, for her mother had never misled her 
by a smgle word. Poor Bessy, hearing Mrs. 
Simmett's answer, as mudi thought her trip 
to the green fields was assured for the morrow 
as that she should go back presently to 
Peter's Court for the night. 

A few tumultuous questions, arising out of 
the fulness of her beating heart, her thought- 
fiil mind, about the hour of starting, and such- 
like, which Ann and Becca Simmett answered 
in accordance with their own ideas — and 
Bessy went home. The clock was striking 
eight. Her father had not come in. Nine 



o'clock struck, and ten struck ; and still he 
did not come. It was no new experience in 
the life of the lonely child. She knelt down 
to say her prayers, got into bed, and fell 
asleep repeating her iavoorite hymn. 

At break&st next meaning — which con- 
sisted of bread with some bcRight dripping, 
and weak tea— Bessy told her father of the 
day's pleasure in store. Mrs. Simmett and 
others, with Ann and Becca, were going to 
the green fields again, and they would take her 
if she might be allowed to go. Might she ? 

" Who says they be going again?" asked 
Roger Wells, rather - struck with the fact that 
the Simmetts should be taking a holiday two 
days running — or nearly running. 

Bessy answered eagerly. Every word the 
two girls had spoken of the anticipated 
pleasure she repeated to her father, adding 
that Mrs. Simmett herself had said she might 
go with them. And Roger Wells, knowing 
Bessy's implicit truthfiilness, and never sus- 
pecting that the child was herself deceived, 
gave her the necessary permission. Simmett 
and his wife were both respectable in their 
way, rather above the ordinary inhabitants of 
Dart Street, and he knew that if Mrs. Sim- 
mett took Bessy she would take care of her. 

" If s fine to be them I — a going out twice 
over in one week!" remarked he. "And 
they be. not folks given to gad alxHit in 
general : Simmett and she stick to then: shed. 
Who else is gomg, Bessy ?" 

" I don't know, father. Th^ are to have 
the samie van, Becca said, and it holds a good 
many." 

" What time do they start ?" 

" Ann Simmett said she thought it was to 
h6 eleven o'clock, but she'd run in this morn- 
ing and tell me for sure. Oh, father 1 what 
a happy day it is going to be !" 

Wells, just then drinking a draught of his 
weak tea, glanced at Bessy over the teacup. 
Her soft eyes were shining with a joyous 
light ; her pole cheeks had caught a faint 
pink glow. 

" Well, child, you must take care of your- 
self." 

" Oh, yes," answered Bessy. " And, father, 
I'll put your dinno* ^ ready fiis^ if you'll 
please to give me a little money to buy it" 

" I shan't come home to dinner to-day, I'll 
get some bread and cheese out," said Wells 
hastily ; for he had no money to give Bessy, 
not even a penny piece, it had been all 
spent at the pubUc-house the previous night. 
" Good-bye, Bessy. And mind you don't 
get running about too much, or you'll be laid 
up again. Sit down quietly in the grass." 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



" I'tt be sure to mind, father." 

Kissing her — a rather unusual thing for 
him to do — he went out. Had he chanced 
to pass the greengrocery shed he would no 
doubt have halted to saiy a word or two about 
the day's excorskm, but his road to work — 
and he really was at work this raorniDg — ted 
him in the contrary diiectioa; 

What a fiatter of delight Bessy was in ! 
The sky was blue, as slie could see from her 
wtodow; the sun was hot. The breakfast 
things wa^ed up, and all things put in order, 
she changed her old frock for her best ; one 
that Jenny, the Bible-woman, had got made 
for her out of a black gown which came up 
from the country to her mother just before 
she died ; and which had neither a patch nor 
a bole m it, hat was very nice in Bessy's eyes. 
Her bbck straw boruiel, made ready for her 
mother's! feneial, just as the black frock bad 
beers was as good as new. After all tix pre- 
paiattOD, Bessy had not gone to the funa^al ; 
it had been a bitterly cold, snowy day, and 
the daiid was ziot weU enoi^ to enosuntcr 
it. The bonnet bad scarce^ been upon her 
head, but had remained m the box done up 
in paper. It was not much tbe ^hion in 
Petei^s Court to wear bonnets, possibly be- 
cause Peter's Court much lacked bonnets to 
wear. 

Perhaps, considering his habits, some 
credit was due to Roger Weils for having 
allowed these things to lie intocU Certain 



it was that tboogli be could hare disposed of 
them for a fair sum of money, he had not 
attempted to do it. We estimate things by 
compahsoD, yoa know ; and it would have 
really been a fair sam compared with the 
general supply in his pockets. 

Her bak smooch, her face fresh and clean, 
the bonnet on and the black ftock, with the 
little cape that belonged to the frock, Bessy 
was ready. Bbt it was only ten o'clock then, 
and she sat down to wait, a white pocket- 
handkerchief that had been her mother's 
lying ready on the table beside her. 

Eleven o'clock came ; she heard it strike 
out from the chnrch. Twelve came ; but no 
Ann Simmett came. Bessy had been inured 
to patience all her life, and had sat patiently 
now while she waited, Uit she began to think 
something must be tlie matter. Taking her 
crutch, and hoping to find them all just 
starting, she went down to see, darts of fear 
strikii^ throi^b her all the way. What if 
they had started and forgotten her ? 

Her appearance in this trim — the bonnet 
on. her head, the decent frock and cape, and 
her mother's white handkerchief lolded in 
her hand — caused no end of a commotion. 
All the boys and girls, out at tliat hour, col- 
lected about her to attend her up Dart 
Street, making many rude inquiries and dis- 
paraging remarks. Poor Bessy, sensitive to 
a fault, was hot and trembliug by tbe time 
she restched Mrs. Simmett's. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND 
THE ZAMBESL 



I. — OFF THE MOUTHS OP THI ZAMBESI. 

THERE had been signS' of land all the 
morning. As the day grew, these in- 
creased in the altered appeaiance of the 
water, which was no longer the deep blue of 
the outer ocean, but a dirty discoloured green, 
in the appearance of floating masses ot long 
grass and gigantic reeds, and of bundles of 
leaves and branches of tropical trees. All this 
i^n's of the land was being carried steadily 
southwards by the stream— the strongest and 
swiftest of the ocean currents — ^whif£ sweeps 
down the eastern shores of ALica till it reaclws 
the Cape, where it becomes broken and 
divided, part flowing northward into tbe 
South. Atlantic towards St. Helena, and the 
other part, baflied in its attempts to double 
the Cape, flowmg eastwards iiUo the Indian 
Ocean. 



It was rvot till noon, however, that land 
was made out from ^e mast head ; and 
shortly afterwards we discovered on the lee 
bow a low ill-defined sandy shore. This was 
the land of the African continent, in latitude 
18* south, where the Zambesi pours its waters 
by five mouths into the Channel ol Mozam- 
bique, 

An arran^ment had been made with Dr. 
Livingstone by which he was expected to be 
at tbe Kongoae, the most southern mouth of 
the Zambesi, on the ist of January. W'c 
were eight days behind tim& But in African 
travel eight days is reckoned of less conse- 
quence tlian as many boars or minutes in 
more fortunate countries, where all life is 
more intense, and where all things move more 
rapidly, than in that stationary continent 
where " all things always seem the same." It 
is oaly when a l^g^o^^J^yi\^c|j^, and use- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LrVINGSTOirfE- AND THE ZAMBESI. 



less months have passed aw:^, that tlie 
traveller may be blamed for irritation at the 
delay, and feels jostified m showiv^ signs of 
impatience to proceed on his joumey, or alter 
his plans. Tvioe during my stay in that 
region was I detained for a period of three 
and five months each, boond to one spot, 
a prisoner at large, thongt in the hands of no 
enemies. African travel tries to the utmost 
ereiy power an^ qiuiKty a man possesses — 
his temper, teeth, and tact, his patience, 
pnrse, aad perseverance, all alike heavily. 

As soon as we were sore that solid land lay 
behind that noonday haze-, we prepared to 
make our presence known to those whom we 
believed to be expecting us on the coast. A 
brass stx-pounder gon, originaDy intended 
for servkre, if need b&, amen^ Arab slave- 
dealers on Lake Nyassa, was got up out of 
the holdr mounted on its carriage, and fired 
3t regnlar intervals. The Union Jack was 
also ran up at the fore, to intimate our pre- 
sence in a diferent way. On the low tree- 
covered shore several imles distant, over- 
anxious eyes soon discovered small clouds of 
smoke arising from the return signals, and 
shortly afterwards a black streak was pro- 
nounced to be the smoke from the funnel of 
the Pion^, Dt. livingatone's steamer, with 
himself on boaid, coming over the 1»t to 
receive his new steamer,, and meet those who 
had come so far on varioHS errands to seek 
him. With the othm on board I looked 
anxiously landwards. Btit even with feir c^e- 
^ht and assisting glass, I coold see' nothing 
bat small growing ctunulm clouds, and haft 
doubtfully I ventiued to sugjg^ that living- 
stone was not there. A more prudent man 
would have held his peace. And the remark, 
not weU timed, was not well received. The 
afternoon wore away, and with it ranished 
our hopes that our long voyage was at a close. 
We had mistaken for signals what were 
nothing more thsm exhalations from sea and 
shore, produced under the potent beams of 
the AlHcan noon. Afber daik we stood 
cliQser in shore and sent up a number of 
rockets. For an hour we looked anxiously 
into the darkness, bat no answering rocket 
made reply. The ship was put about on a 
new course ofF the land till daylight, when we 
retnmed to the signal practice by gun and 
rocket of the previous day. Again the after- 
noon wore away into evening, and the short 
evening of those latrtades into night No 
sign from the shore showed that our presence 
was recognised or expected. For aught we 
knew, the man whose movements were to 
gtride onrs, might be htmdredi of miles disease 



m the cmtre of the African contment. Our 
orders were imperative not to land unless we 
could find I>. Livingstone at the mouth of 
the river. 

On the second lugfat, as oar ill-success 
became more apparent, quiet stillness of 
a sadden disappointment settled down on the 
small party that occupied the quarter-deck of 
the little brig. The ladies, of whom there 
were three, sat aft near the wheel ; others 
leant over the quarter and looked landwards. 
But nothing was to be seen except the crispy 
tops of the rising waves, on which the shifimer 
of a young moon three nights old was shed- 
d»^ a cold and feeble light. No one was 
disposed to talk, as speculation on the pro- 
bablie causes of our failure at the appointed 
rendezvous had already exhausted itself. And 
while we were each turning ova- in our minds 
how long we were likely to lie on various 
by various ten^sts tost, a heavy . shower 
came down and drove us a II below; theladies 
to their small choking cuddy, and those of 
the other sex to their lurking-places in the 
hold amongst the cargo, which consisted of 
sections of a small iron steamer built on the 
Clyde, but intended to float on the waters of 
Lake Nyassa/, a^d be at once a home and a 
fort, if necessary, and the mieans of communi- 
cation round all its shores, in the effort to 
ehrae the dfemon of the slave-trade out of that 
region. In the hold of the ship, amongst 
machine, cosds, forage for live stock, boxes, 
cases, and ^emiscallaaeoos cottectioa of goods 
which are generally stowed away Aere, we 
lived other three weeks. 

The delay served an importaztt and provi- 
dential purpose, and, raean^ile, I shall give 
our readers an account of what be&U' in the 
interval) and of the various objects of our 
smalt party ia that oatrof-the-way r^on. 

n. — ^Ur AND DOWN THE -HOZAMBTQUE. 

There were on board the small brig, Mrs. 
Livingstone, wife c& Dr. Livingstone ; Miss 
Mackenzie, sister of Bishop Mackenzie, of 
the Universities Mission, and Mrs. Burrup, 
wife of one of the missionaries ; the Rev. E. 
Hawkins, son of the late Fiovost of Oriel 
CoUege, Oxftnrd ; one or two artisans about 
to join the expedition ; and Mr. John Blair, 
attached to the mission. 

Mrs. Livingstone died within three months 
after landing ; the other two ladies went back 
in the ship that brought them liom Mozam- 
bique. Poor Hawkins never got a mile from 
the shore. In a short time the malaria of the 
delta struck him down, and be wait back to 
the Cape, and then to England to- die. Of 

Digitized by VjQ C 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



13 



the first five, the writer alone remained on the 
Zambesi. 

The object of my own journey was " to 
examine the country, and, after meeting with 
Dr. livingstooe, to obtain, by personal obser- 
vation and otherwise, die information that 

might be necessary to enable a committee at 
home to form a correct judgment as to the 
possibility of founding a mission in that part 
of Africa ; and also to procure those details 
that might be required to carry out the pro- 
posed mission with success." By this means 
it was believed that unnecessary expenditure 
would be avoided, in the event of any unfor- 
seen obstacle occurring to prevent the esta- 
blishment of the mission. In this preliminary 
exploration the national caution was suffici- 
ently characteristic ; apd the result at the 
time justified the method which was followed. 

With all of us the first step towutk our 
various objects was to meet the great traveller 
himself. Hence our disappointment. But 
in compliance with our orders, as well as for 
other reasons, we bore away northwards for 
Mozambique. We expected to reach that 
port in two days, but it was not till the tenth 
day that we beheld the pink-coloured build- 
ings of the city lying before us in all the 
freshness and beauty of the morning light. On 
our way thither we were caught in a tornado, 
which came down upon us at midnight, with 
sudden onslaught and splendid uproar. I 
went on deck to see. The rain was descend- 
ing in sheets, and the lightning pouring across 
the sky in a fiery stream, and now and then 
breaking up into jagged circles of momentary 
flame. Often since then have I listened to 
the awful uproar of the African tornado, but 
I felt fairly awed by the sinister splendour 
and wild strength of the tempest of that night. 
Its wonders were greatly increased when on 
looking aloft I beheld as clearly as if it had 
been day the bending masts well covered 
with canvas ! It is a marvel yet how we 
escaped. Before daylight the ship was under 
bare poles, and for four days the gale pur- 
sued us, vexing the ship and wearying the 
lives of those who sailed in her. And during 
part of that time we drifted with lashed helm 
and single storm stay-sail, whither wind and 
currents carried us. 

We fell in at Mozambique with the ship of 
war, the Gorgon, one of the cruisers belong- 
ing to the squadron for the suppression of 
slaving on the coast. Captain Wilson agreed 
to lend us assistance, and we proceeded after 
a time to renew our search at the mouths of 
the Zambesi for Dr. Livingstone ; and at 
Quillimane we beard he was on the coast. 



in. — WE MEET DR. LIVINGSTONE. 

On the morning of the ist of February, the 
two ships lay at anchor off the Luabo mouth 
of the Zambesi some six or seven miles firom 
the land. The sea in the Mozambique 
channel was smooth and glassy as in the- 
quietest noons of tropical calms, and the 
level rayp of ^he morning sun lay straight on 
the water, unbroken by a single ripple. Mrs. 
Livingstone and myself wefe watching the 
shore very intently. At length we discovered 
a small cloud of smoke rismg close to the 
land, and shortly afterwards the white hull of 
a small paddle steamer was seen making 
straight for the two ships outside. As the 
vessel approached, I could make out wi& a 
glass a firmly built man of about the middle 
height standing on the port paddle-box, and 
directing the ship's course. He was not 
exactly dressed as a naval officer, but he wore 
that gold-laced cap which has since become 
so well known both at home and in Africa. 
This was Dr. Livingstone ; and I said to his 
wife, "There he is at last!** She looked 
brighter on this announcement than I had 
seen her do any day for seven months 
before. 

In a few minutes his steamer, the Pioneer^ 
was close by, and had let go her anchor, and 
a boat manned by Johanna men, who had 
donned their best, and looked very smart in 
their new j£u;:kets, brought the Doctor along- 
side. He was soon on deck, and met his 
wife, who had seen very little of him for ten 
previous years. Let my fair readers who 
grudge the absence of those they love for the 
greater part of a day, think what it is to be 
the wife of a distinguished African explorer ! 
She had parted from him in 1852, and this 
was now February, 1862. The only interval 
in which she had enjoyed his society was 
that during his stay in England, and on the 
voyage to the Cape in 1858. Mrs. Living- 
stone had accompanied me from England. 
At her own request, after I was ready to sail, 
I delayed my departure till some matters 
could be arranged. We had been from 
various causes, such as waiting at Natal and 
Cape Town, fully seven months on our 
voyage. And now at length I was glad to 
see her safe under the care of her natural 
protector. 

There were now three vessels lying to- 
gether, and the monotony of our previous 
voyage was changed for bustle and excite- 
ment. The day was spent in steaming down 
to the Kongone mouth, in makisg prepara- 
tions for crossing the[^^^eJfc^«fei@=@*I^H 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI. 



the assistance for a short time of some of the 
seamen of the man-of-war would greatly 
farther the objects of the Expedition, and 
also serve a purpose when they ascended the 
river, which ulterior service, however, was 
not required, and this object was not fully 
made ^v}wn at first It was connected with 
the reported disturbances in the country, and 
the difficulties of the Universities Mission, 
The " Goi^ons " were accordingly piped aft, 
and after a short and emphatic speech from 
Dr. Livingstone, and one equally short from 
Captain Wilson, the commander of the 
G&rgon, a detachment of sixty volunteers was 
secured to assist in placing the Lady Nyassa 
on the ZambesL A few of these joined the 
Expedition; and among them was Mr. £. 
Young, who subsequently distinguished him- 
self in the search for livingstone, on the first 
report of his death in 1867. 

Those who have seen the bar of a large 
Airican river, when the sea is even moderately 
rough, will not soon forget the sight. There 
are times when such bars are terrible even to 
those accustomed all their lives to the sea, 
though, also, there are other occasions when 
by a fortunate conjunction of wind and tide 
there is nothing more than a long surging 
swell. This was not exactly the condition of 
affairs next morning. The Sabbath dawned 
with a black, leaden slgr, and heavy driving 
showers; there was a surly breeze, and a 
short chopping, angry sea. With this weather, 
at seven o'clock two of the vessels made for 
th^bar. Nothing could be seen at first but 
an unbroken white wall of angry rolling surf 
On closer approach, one black streak seemed 
to break the line of the' formidable barrier. 
This was the navigable passage. Through it 
the ships were steered by bearings taken from 
certain trees, and a dilapidated flag-staff on 
an island close to the shore. The passage is 
always an occasion of a few minutes of in- 
tense anxiety, according to the state of the 
weather ; but at length we were over, and in 
a few minutes found ourselves at anchor in 
several fathoms of deep water in the channel 
of the Zambesi inside, llie harbour we had 
entered was one not known to commerce, 
though out of it, as from all such lonely and 
unfrequented places on the AMcan coast, full 
caigoes of human miseiy have been often 
run, in the palmy days of unrestricted slaving ; 
and even later, as rumour spoke freely of two 
ventures only a few years before, which had 
been successful after a good deal of watching 
and manceuyring to ascertain that no British 
cruiser was close by, outside the bar. The 
Kongone harbour is a stretch of tiver less 



than half a mile wide, and two or three miles 
long, with the invariable belt of mangroves 
extending down to the water's edge. 

Dr. Livingstone, Captain Wilson, and my- 
self, landed in the afternoon and returned to 
the ship at sunset, when the day was con- 
cluded by the reading of a short portion of 
the Bible by the Doctor himself, and by 
prayers on the quarter deck. 

On the following day I explained to Dr. 
Livingstone the object of my journey, and 
presented my credentials. He said he needed 
no letters, as he was already aware of that 
object. He arranged that I should accom- 
pany him into the country as soon as the 
ship moved up the river ; and it may be as 
well to state here, that he again and again, 
at that time and afterwards, expressed his 
gratification at my coming, frequently sa3ring, 
" I am very glad you have come." 

In this hfubour we remained eight days. 
There was considerable activity from the 
presence of so large a force of men. Boats 
were coming and going on most days from 
mom till night, between the ships and the 
shore, landing stores and other goods ; and 
the transhipping of the sections of the 
small steamer from the hold of the brig 
to the deck of the Pioneer, was carried on 
with rapidity and success. On a bright, 
clear day, when sea and land lay in the full 
splendour of an African sun, the flat and 
featureless delta of the Zambesi did not seem 
either an unpleasant or insalubrious place. 
The glittering sea be}^md the bar with its 
flashing waves gleamed in the sunlight, and 
even the muddy water of the river looked 
less turbid, and the dull mangrove woods lost 
their monotonous hue, and broke up into 
long stretches of brilliant green, with shadows 
here and there, which only deepened as the 
sun withdrew. Thus it always is even in the 
deadliest parts of the tropics. One cannot 
for a time believe that amongst such a pro- 
fiision of warmth, and colour, and life of 
various kinds, disease and death should lie 
concealed so often dose at hand. Yet so it 
is, though no fear coming evil troubles one 
at first You do not Aink of the unhealthy 
character of the river delta till the subtle 
fever has you fiurly in its grip; and its 
further progress reduces you to a state of 
childish weakness. Fresh from the invi- 
gorating stimulus of a sea voyage, you are 
disposed to laugh at the stories you have 
heard. of the climate, and you do not believe 
them, till you are prostrated by the blow of 
the unseen enemy. , 

This unhealthine^i^^gan^iioeitLto 



SUNDAY M.\GAZIKE. 



tlioKe extensive littoral forests, known as 
mangrove sw&mps, which a.rc fcumd wberet'er 
frcih and £aU water meet an tropical bIiopcs. 
I went one day aloue to examine and satisfy 
myself about this (eatare of African riser 
mouths. Kvei^' one has hcax<\ of a man- 
grove swamp, but what it is exactly like, very 
kaf Cfl4i tell. After passing throngli ba,tf a 
mile of dry s:intiy soil, covered u-iih coarse 
grass, 4ii^arfpalrab, ac2ci£L:^, and a sj>edes of 
fitr^'clmos, beniing n fmii m nine, and colour, 
and liirdness exacdy like a cricket ball, I 
found myself on the edge of a wood of 
&traigh.t, Silender, handiiOiTie-looking trees, 
with large liliiniiig lea-diery leaves. These 
were the niajigro^'es, looking, except for their 
arched rootSj nothing likt; the repulsive 
nfonsters of the \'egeta.ble world ive usiiaUy 
lake them to be. They are singular trees 
nevenheleas. This forest rose out of a soil 
of black mud, on which grew not a single 
blade of grass, but which was covered with 
Ettle pools containing tlie dirty water of the 
last tide. In every directiaii creeks and 
dilthes intersect the swamp. There is great 
difficulty in raakiog way over ground so 
tteacherous. The roots of the trees are 
sometimes horizontal, but mostly arthed. 
These fonn, if not the surest, at lesst the 
most firm steppin£-pl.ices, slippery though 
they are. Stems of lidlen, but still living, 
frees, clinging wjih tenacity to mud and life, 
sLreieh across the narrowest of diese canals. 
OUiLT catials arc bndficlcss because of their 
breadth. On the edge of one of these 1 sat 
down to rest, and after a time crawled cauti- 
ously oat on the fallen stem, and looked up 
and down the creek. I could oiily see a 
mile or more of a broad canal of deep turbid 
M-ater, which had motion -enougli to chum 
the mud. The banks were dangerous slopes 
of slime. ^Vn unbroken wall of leaves and 
branches stretched one on both sides, and 
drooped towards the water under the fierce 
beanos of the noon. The heat, the humidity, 
the mass of green foliage above, the gloom 
and the sliminess below, and the silence 
everj'where, convey the irresistible imi<re!i.3ioB 
that you are in a place unfit for human 
life ; that dry land is but in process of furma- 
tiou ; that the condition of things around you 
is that in which the whole eardi was, in some 
of those far bact eras of geologic date, 
before the world M'as ready for the habitation 
of man — perhaps as far back, except for the 
higlier vegetation of the swamp, as tlie dank 
and steamy period of the coal formation ; or 
more probably of the later teriiaryf vvhen 
lopg waddhng saurians, and megatheriums of 



all kinds, vast and teiriUe, and bea\7 footed, 
pressed the soft young earth with their pon- 
derous tread, or rolled about with huge 
delight in their baths of tcfiid mud. 

As I sat on my dangerous perch above die 
muddy estuary, iwt a sound reached my ear 
but tlie sharp chick of a gaily dressed king- 
fisher, perched on his simt 1^ in the 
branches overhead. He was a little spot of 
livingcolour — of vivid ultiamariDe and saffron 
— and looked at me widi those large black 
eyes, full of con&deBce and wonder, which 
give so peculiar an expression to this bird's 
face. 

At the hours the greatest heat o( the 
day most of the lile of the mangrove swmnnp 
is tracing its rest. And often when I have 
seen elsewhere the curled-up millepede asleep 
behind some broad thick leaf, I have thought 
it was teaching a lesson of common sesse to 
all mad iEi^lishmen who persist in carrying 
their home habits with thezn wherever they 
^o, and in tropical ^itudes are foimd roaxo- 
mg about in the midday sun very touch as 
they would do in the tempered light and 
beat of their own isLmd home. 

Earlier or later in the day there are signs 
of abundant life among the mangroves. 
Things that Hve in ooze, and plague tlie 
naturalist to say what is their rank or place 
in the world of living beings, find a safe and 
congenial home, undisturbed by man at least, 
in these slimy eohtudes. Millions of crabs, 
of different sizes and colours, steal about 
with sidelong pace on every ditch-side, and 
carry on war with their hard nippers against 
their less-protected neighbours. Multitudes 
of blennies and gobies, and other mud-loving 
fish of the same family, with the same 
tenacity of life, and the same unfish-like 
conduct of straying out of the water, poke 
about on the soft banks in search of minute 
crustaceans ; and as they mistake the sound 
of your footstep for the approach of some 
prowling crab, they wriggle off in terror to 
the bottom of the ditdi, cm: to their dark 
holes in the bank. These and many other 
forms oi higher life fili these creeks and 
canals, and among them goes ou the same 
struggle for existence as is waged among 
more highly organised tribes. On the sides 
of open reaches of water there are great 
flocks of birds, chiefly water-birds, which 
wade about and fish in the shallower pools 
for food. The dangerous crocodile lurks in 
the deeper creeks, or lies like a mud-covered 
log by the more shallow waters, wanning his 
slow blood in the sun. 

After two or, j||>ffPa hours' floundering 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI. 



through this gloomy iaJtiyrinth of crwks and 
Inches, and passing at times by sbaJlow 
lagooas, you coise at leng^ to an open 
space, irltere tbe ground is <Uy astd ^m, and 
lughcr than the suivotiading leiwi A cleaf 
space of blue sky is seen above, aod \here is 
light anddToom to walk abouL There tlie 
mangroves die. TJke foxmatmi of laod, 
the real vork of thoK Btnu^e -am^bii of 
the i^ant-wodd, irhich lead so angiUw a lifie 
— ^whidi and floua^ wbere other trees 
die, and die w^Eene othfirs live — haring been 
accomplished, tliey gra^afy disappear. Bare 
deajd poiles, straight as telegra(»h-po&ts, now 
oalj remain. Small tufts of grass be^ to 
spring up initiie open space. Winds, insecte, 
and tNvds faring further suppSies of oew seeds. 
In a few years a oaore \'ftr»d vegetation will 
flonrish tlKT-e, and rrbalt is sow an uninhabit- 
iUile swamp, will be added to the babiitable 
delta Jtrf toe river. The mas^oves, now dis- 
possessed, move further out towards the tide 
to renew their encroachments on the sea. 
And thns, strangely enough the struggle for 
territory is carried on not less by the ^«at 
ffiknt Iffws and eyeriaating ioutes of nature, 
than by the jealousies and ambitioos of 
crowned poteDtatefi-*cro«Ded aad yet greedy 
and dissaiififiod ! 

These trees, having this geolc^c function 
to perform, have some cuiious adaptations in 
order to ofiect it ; and remir^ us once again 
how full of analogies aod subtle resemblances 
is the world we Hve in. llang^oves in the 
plant-world correspond to marsupials in the 
animal kingdoiv. The young mangrove does 
not quit the parent stem, any more than does 
the yousg nuusupial the parent pouch, till a 
measure of perfect life has been attamed. 
If it did, it would be SW'^ out to the sea by 
the first tide, and there would soon be an 
end qS mangroves. But aloft^ amoog the 
branches, the seed germinates, developes 
root and embryo leaves, and, swun^g in its 
warm and hunud yet breezy ciadle, it grows 
apace, and when more fully f(»i]aed, it drops, 
root downwards, into the mud below, and ^is 
soil, of which it thus lays hold, it does not 
quit till the tenit<»y it and its neighbours 
have occupied has been ccnnpl^j wrested 
from the dominion of the ocean. 

I returned irom the swamp late in the after- 
noon, coveced with mud and drenched with 
sweat, and with those peculiar head symp- 
tooBS that sun and mwgrove effluvia alone 
can i»oduce. I could not have eaten, if 
Z bad bad food; neither could I get off 
to the . ship, so I cr'q>t into a tent that had 
been set up on the >hore and iell .asleep. At 



sunset I awoke refreshed, finding then, as 
often since, that rest is frequently better than 
food. In A&iam travel we have often to 
substitute the one for the other. 

Iji the £)ding light of that evening, as I 
sat outside the tent amoqg the ff^ss and dwarf 
palms, waiting in meek patience for a boat to 
take me oS, it strudt me that if some have 
Ibund sermons in stones, I couid £nd a moral 
in mangroves, good 6x all, and specially so 
for thoK who a«e alt work as A&acaa mis- 
stonaries. It is tiiis. If you have a true 
purpose worliy of being wrooght out, lie 
tenacious of it, patiently .keep to it, and if it 
is a drue idea, some day or other it will bear 
fruit, and the end will be gained, even if it is 
so hop^ess a work, as that of turning sea 
into dry land. By some such tenacity is 
the vast aund difficult yvoTk of introducing the 
gospel into Central Afhca to be effected, 
and the unhealthy mire and utter sloc^ of 
heathenism skwly to give place to the new, 
and healthy, and fair Chzistiaiuty «f a better 
time. The doecs in both cases, men and 
man^:ov«i, will perish, but the deed n-ill 
remain to bless the world. I cannot fancy 
any missionary at work, whetha on the east 
or west ccwist, in Central Africa at least, with 
the constant debilitation of ho&y and mind 
ttom climate and fever, and the perpetual 
depression of heart which arises £rom other 
causes, without havir^ his resolve hardened 
by some such expectatiou and belief. The 
best example of this seemed to be Living- 
stone himself, round whose fottunes and 
doings these three ships had ga.tbered in 
that imknown harbour at an African river 
mouth, and to assist whom a hundred men 
had been toilii^ from dawn to sunset Hi:^ 
positicm jiaw was very diffa?ent &om that of 
the scarcely known travel]o;floundeiing alone 
in the swamps of the Chobe when on bis 
way the first time to linyanti m Z853. So 
I was thinking, when die scamd cf oaxs on 
the rowlocks warned me that I had better 
not sleep out in the delta, even under a, tent, 
when there nas a ship to whidi I could get off. 

IV. — UP THE Z.4MEESI TO SHUPANGA. 

In a week we sailed for Shupanga in the 
Pioneer. The small brig was Idft at the 
mouth of the. river to return homewards 
when ready for sea. We passed into the 
main stream of the Zambesi by a narrow- 
channel, so narrow at certain parts that the 
paddle-boxes of the steamer brushed aside the 
overhanging branches and luxuriant under- 
wood of llie virgin Afiican forest Sharp 
turns in diis canal were got rouBd by war^fe 



i6 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



6x6(1 to trees, and by purchase made on the 
stem or stem of the steamer as was neces- 
sary. The stillness of these woods was 
strangely broken by the sound of the paddle- 
floats striking on the water as we steamed 
onwards in tlw early morning. Emerging 
from this canal, the main stream of the 
Zambesi burst on our view, more than a mile 
wide, and pouring an immense volume of 
water to the sea. After the belt of man- 
groves, which varies from ten to thirty miles 
broad, is left behind, there is not much wood 
on the river banks. The forests stand back 
from the river itself. Though Shupanga is 
less than a hundred mites from the sea, we 
were, from various causes, long in reaching 
there. The two chief causes of delay were 
the frequent stoppings to cut or buy wood, 
and the state of the engines, which, with a 
heavy current to steam against, and, as was 
afterwards found, a too heavily laden ship, 
did their duty very indifferentiy. And for 
several days we saw on both sides of the 
river banks only flat lands, covered with 
grass six feet high, the flatness being broken 
now and dien by clumps of lignum vitte and 
other trees, while closer to the river stood 
groups of palmyra palms. The thatched 
roofs of the huts of native villages also 
appear above the reeds and grass and low 
bush of the plains. ITie population is by no 
means dense, though it is greater than would 
be supposed. Native villages, from the low- 
ness of the huts, and from their brown colour, 
are, at a distance, undistinguishable from the 
land on which' they rest If the huts of 
Africa had whitewashed wdlls, the population 
of the country would seem twice as great to 
the passing traveller as it appears to be. 

In the delta of the Zambesi, tfie population 
must at one time have been much greater 
than it is now. How many thousands of 
those who were born on the banks of that 
river now sleep, after a miserable existence, 
beneath the soil of Brazil and Cuba, and 
elsewhere, no one can say. All Central 
Africa has much the same history. The 
astonishing thing about the history of that 
continent after so many centuries of depopu- 
lation by the export slave-trade, and all the 
wars and viUanies to which it gives rise, is, 
that the whole country is not a vast desert, 
tenanted only by wild beasts. It was said 
that one time this horrible trade was carried 
on \rith such frightful success on the lower 
Zambesi, that the country was rapidly becom- 
ing a desert ; and the wholesale deportation 
of the unhappy people was only stopped by 
the efforts (tf Uie Porti^ese home govern- 



ment. Though this business on a large scale 
is now at an end, a little is still done in that 
way privately, as will be seen by the follow- 
ing incident which occurred about nine 
months after the date of the events I am now 
recording. I was living at Shupanga at that 
time, preparatory to another canoe journey 
up the river. Mr. Ricfa^ Thornton, the 
geologist of the eiqpedition, was also there. 
Dr. Livingstone was away exploring the 
Ruvuma. The Lady Nyassa had some 
months before been put together, and the 
hull of the vessel was moored in the mid- 
channel of the river. Two men had been 
put on boasd to take care of the ship, and a 
dreadful time they must have had of it, with 
nothing to do for six months but watdi the 
ship and the current of the river as it flowed 
past. Of course they suffered severely from 
fever, but fortunately they took it by turns. 
One of them — Reid, the carpenter — was so 
ill that he could not rise. 

I was sitting late working at a journal 
which cost me some trouble. Mr. Thornton 
was busy with bis map and observations. 
The night was quiet and still, as only nights 
in the African wilderness can be, when about 
twelve o'clock the stillness was in a mo- 
ment broken by a tremendous clanging of the 
large bell on board the Nyassa, This bell we 
had never before heard used. Its notes 
sounded through the woods behind as if the 
ringer were in extremest terror. We seized 
our guns, which, for life in tliat country, have 
always to be kept ready, and rushed down in 
breathless haste to the water's edg^ and 
shouted in the darkness,— 

" On board there ! what's the matter?*' 

A voice, which we recognised as that of 
Macleod, the Scotch blacksmith, replied, — 

"Sir, sir ! come alxxn-d !" 

We pushed off", and got on board, and 
found Macleod standing by the cabin door, 
in a state of great alarm. He explained 
that he had been roused out of his sleep by 
the sound of irons striking against the ship's 
side, and by men clambering on board. He 
was very weak, poor fellow, from illness at 
the rime, and riot very well able to defend 
himself had an attack really been made. He 
also said, — 

" There are two men forward tha% down 
on the dedc There may be more. Take 
care." 

We approached cautiously, even though 
we were well armed, and had now got a 
light. But we found nothing to fight with. 
Instead, we found, crouching down on the 
deck, two poor creatures, l^s of about 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI 



17 



eighteen or twenty, chained together^by a few 
links' round the ankle, and an iron bar of 
about -twenty inches connecting the two. 
They did not utter a single word, but simply 
looked up at us with imploring glances, as if 
their positions would tell their sad story 
best, and as if to say, " Here we are, trying 
to escape from these chains and slavery. 
Help ns. Englishmen ! " 

The dumb appealing misery of these two 
poor lads will haunt me as long as I live. 
They were two slaves being carried down to 
the coast They had stopped for the night 



on an island opposite Shupanga, their owner 
probably thinking they would, with the others 
he had, be more saSe there than on the 
mainland But they managed to escape, had 
seized a small canoe, a mere skiff, and had 
paddled up by the side of the island till they 
got fairly into the stream, and then taking 
advantage of the current, had made in the 
darkness a desperate shot at the ship, and 
having brought their canoe alongside, allowed 
it to float away in the stream, and clambered 
up the iron sides of what seemed to them an 
ark of safety. Their bold venture implied 




considerable skill, as well as nerve and dar- 
ing. The slightest motion of either of their 
bodies made a clanking noise by the move- 
ment of their heavy chains. How they 
managed to get out of the huts, and escape 
from their keepers without noise, to get a 
canoe in a place strange to them, and most 
of all to make the ship so successfully, and 
climb up its steep sides, for there was no 
ladder on that side by which they entered, 
and the ship, being light, was high out of 
the water, is to me, even at the distance of 
raany years, a cause of frequent wonder. 

IV. 



The dangers as well as the difficulties were 
many. The night was dark, the island un- 
known, the current was swift, and the river 
deep. Crocodiles were abundant ; two lives 
had been lost at that spot shortly before; 
and had either of them missed his foot- 
ing on the ship's side, chained together as 
they were, it was certain death to both. But 
there they were ; and, as I have said, they 
simply looked up at us, as they lay uncomfort- 
ably huddled together by their short chains, 
their naked bodies covered with mud and wet. 
We got them ashore, took them to 



»8 



SUNDAY MAOAZIKE. 



house, and gave them supper . and a mat to 
sleep on. The worst part of the story 
remains to be told. Early 'next mornuig 
^ir mevciless master came to claim them. 
He was fnvbably put on the right scent by 
^ uproar oC that unforfcunate bdl. He was 
'determiaed to have them ; resistance was 
useless. Dr. Livingstone had already re- 
leased one body of slaves, and this was lead- 
ing to serious diinculties. It was a miser- 
able moment w^n we saw those two poor 
sons of wretchedBess and ignorance liobble 
off to a life o£ misery. The future promises 
little to a slave. What vile punishment they 
may have endured for this attempt to escape, 
th^usdves and God in heaven only know. 
Hiat Uiey suffered is ceitain. At die back 
of that same house I have seen theee grown 
men, for a slighter offence dian tijiiig to 
escape, tied, stripped naked, laid aa their 
&tces Qn the cailii, and flowed by vd^^s of 
powo&l men, oceattBodtng on each«d^ till 
skin in iaxge ftikes and b^>d in abun(iBK:e 
iew -afaodt oader the tremendous Unrs of 
bmd hexvy-ihaigs of hardened hide, and 
till 4he .wihappy ^tirar were voable to mt, 
and had to be Ufted up and taken swi^. 

Do we wonder that these two pow igno- 
rant creatoces risked death in dieir effort to 
C6ca|» ? ifseoncd to be their only chanoe 
to iBBke k>:«he £Bgiih ship. I^onmt as 
they-'ncre -Aif 4eii ihoairod things that ym 
and I, gcad . re«far, kntm, th^ stra^ely 
enotigh had^thtfd of this idea, that they 
had a dnacc^ if Acf wnAd neadi that hull 
which waste. Aeai smply a hig mn hoaae 
floating tjHtherwater, inasmuch aalh e i e mre 
EnglishoBettthoKe. The act was great-trrbate 
to our country. When will it waken up to a 
right comprehension of the way it is trusted ? 
When will the Christian churches of this 
country waken up to a sense of the power 
they have for good by simply exccntiog their 
commission, and sending the gospel to 
abolish that horrible trade? Christianity 
has now nearly banished shivery from all 
ciacilned cocmtries. There remuns for it the 
work of extingui^ing that greatest of Aftioi's 
Buseries tnthin 'liie coodaent itself. In 
■aDotber paper X shall say MMethiog about a 
project that- haa. already become kaflrwn as 
LnnNOffTOMU, which, if it evec And a habiu- 
tion and a name in Central A&ica, woi^ be- 
come a city of refine as well as centre of 
U^t, for those who at pressBt have hardly a 
star in the sky -of their Long dark night 

Let Die resiune the aarradve. As ' we 
pM93d up the river the pei^e came down 
4»m theirrriU^es to look at^ sfeauaer as 



it passed. They are willbig to trade in any- 
thing or everythiiig, acd as we were depend- 
ent on them in great part for supplies of 
fuel, the trade in wood was the most diriving. 
Cutting down hard timbCT«for even iignum 
vitn trees ware used as fuel — too much ex- 
haused the crew, and our woodings were 
sometunea performed in this way. 

Dr. Livingstone had resolved to go to a 
lai;ge vUlage one aflemoon about a supply, 
and, on invitation &om himself^ I accom- 
paaied him. The day was hot even for an 
A^caa summer day. Not a breath of air 
at that time disturbed the water or stirred 
a leaf on shore. The broad river, which, but 
for its current and the enormous quantities 
of gigantic duck^weed, with beads as large as 
ctUbagcs, which were being carried down the 
stseam, looked like a great Aeetof burnished 



c<^per. For two hooiB the men pulld away 
in the gig; g te e aming -widi penptration,.and 
speaking Int seldom. Dr. livingstooe and 
myself satbakmg-in the stem liuets, <Miged 
to cover our heads with pieoes of calico 
taken from the bundle 'brought to purchase 
wood, calico bong- there the chief currency. 
My pocket thermometer, graduated to a hun- 
dred and t«Rnty-five degrees, had long since 
ceased to measure the heat. I ashed faim if 
he recfcoaed this hot. 

"YeSj^'heaaid, "it is pretty hot, «»ett for 
mAhicnihgr.*' 

There are sach liays in Africa 'when the 
eatdi seem like a hot voal,iind all the air 
iiuneu lifce asoenihiig ftuses. 

DaqMCe all this, the afternoon passed 
I^easautly and quickly, and the conversation 
did not flag. With Dr. Livingstone, when 
we have been alone, I have aiways found 
mj-seif at ease, and no hours passed more 
agree^y on the Zambesi than when ha was 
disposed to talk freely, after the day's work 
was done, sometimes on moonlight /lights, 
or in the darkness, on the quarter-deck C\( 
the steamer. His conversation, like all the 
rest of his life, was exceedingly natural, and 
suBple, and unaffected, and from .his loiow- 
ledge of books, wfaidi for a man who hid 
lived 90 long in Africa was perfectly wopder- 
ftU, and from his eaperience of stiange sosaes 
abroad and men of note at hone, nas very 
varied and ^ways interesting. He never 
told stories, as many men do, widi (he view 
of lejrvicg on you the impression — " What a 
wonderful fellow I am ! " or, " How well I hwi-e 
told y<Hi that story 1" In fact, as readers of 
his books will probably thwk, he was rather 
wanlmg in . dranaatic or descripdve power. 
When he did r^te any ofjiis adwnhuem or 

Digitized by V^OO_^ IC 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI. 



tell any story, he did so with a certain diy 
Scotch hnmour, accompanied with a very 
quiet laugh and a peculiar glance of his keen 
hazel eye. You felt that your enjoyment 
vas what he aimed at in what he said, and that 
for yonr sake the stoty was tcAd. He laughed 
heartily, but nerer seemed to be a boisterous 
laugher, or yield himself up tn^ts c^hiluity, 
— at least, I have never seen him do so. I 
have heard him called "a singular man." 
In a good many senses he was so undoubt- 
edly. He took strong likes and distikts. 
He was apt to be misled, as all men are, and 
as blood is thicker than water, on the Zam- 
besi as well as elsewhere. And since no man 
is at all times as well infonned as he would 
need to be, ta judge with unerring accuracy 
of other men and their motives, it is possible 
Aat he sometimes mistook his fnends for his 
foes. I am thinking of some events that 
took place on the Zambesi about and before 
the period of whidi I am -writing, especially 
in the case of Mr. Thornton the geologist, 
and Mr. Barnes the artist ; xnd in conse- 
quence of vhrdi Dr. Livingstone has been 
thought to have been a different man from 
what he really was. In the case of 'Mr. 
Thornton, it could, I think, be shown 
that Dr. Livingstone latterly felt he had 
been sadly misled. _Those who knew Mr. 
Thornton, before his too early death, all 
agree that he possessed a marvellous amotmt 
of energy and perseverance ; that he had the 
power and cajK^city for -work and the right 
spirit in him, and, despiteof all that happmed, 
a desire to serve his chief. ' H« went oat to 
Africa fill! of trust and admiTation for Dr. 
Livingstone. Unhappily witlnn a year, frem 
the insinuations of miadiief^makers, be was 
expelled from the expedilion. He, neverthe- 
less, with great detennination,and in the face 
of many difficulties, continued -his' work alone, 
and thus saved his reputation. 

I refer to these things because, on account 
of them and some other occurrences, false esti- : 
mates have been formed of Dr. Livingstone's 
tharacter. I will not saytiiat he had what 
many men of great and simple nature are un- 
happily possessed of, a certain iaeileness, that 
places tiiem at the mercy of "certain men, leas 
true and smcere than themselves; but it is 
quite possiUe he had. Men whg 
'selves possessed of latnres at tmce'great and 
simple and direct, and tme as the day, and 
vho, if they had an accusation tO 'malce<n'an 
advice to g^ve, would cometjotwithttatonce, 
cannot nrnderrtand the tortuons mental pro- 
cesses of men totally differently corrstitiHed. 
Hence the misconceptions, misunderstand- 



ings, and suspicions which arise -even in the 
minds of the best of men. Hence, also, the 
occasional hardness, and the puzzling out- 
standing facts that appear in the cbaractw 
of those who olhennse are generous in iheii 
estimate of others, and tendeMiearted beyond 
most. Goethe was right i^en he said that 
more nnJiappmess arises in the world fiom 
misunderstandings than from malice. 

We made ourway op the river, and our 
talk turned on his ftmner work at Kolobeng ; 
on Van der Kemp's doing and success as a 
missionary; and on the objects of John 
Campbell's journeys in Sooth Africa, which 
were in part to put r^t certain abuses that 
had crept into the workings of mission sta- 
Hons. The pernicious practice of " interview- 
ing " has as yetmnained more of an American 
tl»n an English h^iit, md it is to be devoutly 
hoped that it will long rentkin so. In saying 
this I make no reference to any special book. 
I simply -mean that I do -not purpose giving 
again what Dr. Livingstone said on various 
maMCTS, either in the ^k of that afternoon or 
of many subsequent occasions. But I may 
allude to one matter, to which he then 
referred with a kind of comical dissatis^iac- 
tion, and which bo far tiiostrates the man. 
It was on the occasion of . his first visit to 
Edinbargh, after his return from his joumey 
of five y«axs across the continent. Me was 
caught, and oanied ohout from place to 
place ; and : then, after an exciting day, he 
found hinwdf the central figure of what he 
called a *^set, fonnal diimer,*' which was 
hardly 4iaidied ere he was hunied off to 
speak atanceting in one of the .large halls 
of the city. He was. worn out with i'atigue ; 
and after sixteen years in Africa, ^nd him- 
self unfitted for such work all at once, and 
made a very poor business <rf it ! " I under- 
stood him to say that he ail but broke down, 
or actually did so. His worthy friend, the 

Rev. Mr. C , who still lives in Edii^ui^h, 

will remember the oocasion, and the remarks 
which it exctted. But the &ct is, he was 
more ta^ien aback at thus being lionised 
than he would have been if he Ind met a 
lion in the desert. Later on, he bore his 
hoBoais more eanly and comfertably. 

- At' a sudden bend of the imr, we 
came upon a-soKtary old loan, sitting oo the 
bailfc, ^hii^ wiA a mde line and :hook of 
native manufiKtnre. 'He<faad baded.a small 
basket of Kttle fish. In the midst of all this 
fiery glow, he was qantty perdied on a little 
knoil, without ciotb or oovermg ofanyiind, \ 
except a thin strip round his loins. He was'v> 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



a civil old fellow, and evidently very poor ; 
for there are degrees of poverty even in 
Africa. We asked about the village, and 
shortly afterwards landed according to his 
directions. We entered some fields of tall, 
heavy millet, some of it nearly ten feet high ; 
and as there were many paths winding about, 
I asked Dr. Livingstone what guided him in 
the selection. He said " the tree for though 
we could not see the village, the highest 
branches of a veiy large tree could be seen 
above the mfllet. "Where the tree is," he 
said, "on Uie open plains, the village is 
pretty sure to be." 

On reaching the place we found the men 
awaiting us under the wide shade of the tree. 
As this was the first time I had been out on 
a business of this sort, I watched the pro- 
ceedings very closely. It may surprise some 
of my readers to hear that Dr. Livingstone, 
as we approached, saluted these half-naked 
Afiicans by slightly raising his gold-laced 
cap just a little above the head, according 
to his habit, which will be remembered by 
so many. This was accompanied by a very 
pleasant smile. But in this we have part of 
the secret of his success with Africans. He 
was, as a rule, always kindly and gentle to 
them, and I do not think that even the most 
worthless and treacherous of his followers 
ever returned from a journey with the Doctor 
with his front teeth knocked out, as we read 
of in the books of some travellers. 

His salutation, the natives returned by a 
profound bow and a long scrape of the right 
foot backwards on the earth. This, however, 
has been learned from the Portuguese on the 
coast The true native salutation is to bow 
and clap the hands together in a deferential 
sort of way, with the accompanjring irord 
iWw/"Sir. Chiefl" 

Mats were brought for us to sit down, and 
business was commenced by Dr. Livingstone 
giving a present of a few yards of calico to 
the headman. He was die tallest, biggest, 
and fattest among the crowd. And though at 
first we thought there was some suspicion 
and abrm on his countenance, no sooner did 
they understand that we had come to buy, 
and not to steal, than the headman's broad 
face became more round, and radiant with 
good humour. The Doctor's experience in- 
terpreted this rightly by remarking, 

"We shall get on with him. An ill-natured 
or vicious fellow would not laugh in that way ; 
neither do the great chiefs unbend so readily, 
even with white strangers." 

The entire hladL party sat squatted on tbeir 



haras under &e trees, and in the shade of the 
verandahs of the huts. As bur object became 
known, a large number of the young men, and 
a few of the poorer old ones, were started off, 
in obedience to the shouts of the headman 
and of the richer seniors, to collect wood ; 
and in a few minutes the bulk of the male 
population was tearing down every spare stick, 
and hauling at every stay log of dry wood 
which the village contained. We offered to 
buy everything that could be burnt oi eaten. 
Manioc, pumpkins, peas, beans, e^^, and 
fowls were tbe diief provisions produced ; 
and to secure the fowls, young Africa, whose 
arms were too weak to cany wood, was flying 
about in puris naturalibus, and there was 
a great crowing of captured cocks — the 
msongwe being always the first victims. The 
women and girls still kept a distance, peering 
at us round the sides of the huts with some 
shyness, and perhaps some fear, as they were 
not sure what changes in the village the visit 
of the white men might make. 

Gradually the pile of wood rose as high as 
the huts, and was bfu^galned and paid for in 
calico ; and was then carried off by • the 
younger men on their heads to the water's 
edge. There was- much noise, and shouting, 
and laughter, and genuine hilarity, as is always 
the case when Africans are at work and in 
good humour; but when not, silent and 
glum are they. It had now become much 
cooler, and on looking in the direction of the 
river, I saw over the millet-fields the top- 
masts of the Pioneer bending before the 
breeze, and the white sails standing out clear 
and beautiful, as white sails always do, against 
the red evening sky of the west This breeze 
comes every afternoon from the sea, some- 
times earlier, sometimes later; and when late, 
it rushes landward with considoable force. 
Captain Wilson, who was accompanying the 
Expedition so far up the river, and i^ ren- 
dered to it in many ways most material 
assistance, had brought up the ship by taking 
advantage of the breeze. 

The wood was shipped, and we steamed 
off, a crowd of these simple children of 
nature staring in wonder from the bank. 
They wished us a rude but kindly good-bye, 
well satisfied, no doubt, with the afternoon's 
transactions, which had enriched their village 
with an unusual quantity of cloth. We held 
on for some hours in the clear moonlight, till 
between nine and ten o'clock, when, having 
got fast in a cuJ-deseu, formed by a spit of 
sand and a bank of reeds, we dropped anchor 
for the night. james stewakt. 



THE COLPORTEUR IN IRELAND. 



THE COLPORTEUR IN IRELAND. 



" AX 7" HAT is a colporteur?" an Irishman 
* • once asked of one who bore the 
title. " I am sure I don't know," was the 
very Irish reply, "but I sell books." The 
question does not need now to be asked in 
Ireland so often as formerly. Whether any 
light has been thrown on the meaning of the 
mysterious word, we do not exactly know ; 
but the man who goes about selling good 
books is becoming more familiar in all parts 
of the countiy. It is not easy to get exact 
information about some who have been 
employed as colporteurs by benevolent i)er- 
sons on their own account; our attention 
will therefore be confined to those who are 
connected with the "Bible and Colportage 
Society of Irehujd." That Society began its 
work in 1859, the year of the "revival" in 
the north of Ireland; and it derived a 
very, considerable impulse from that event. 
Wherever you have a religious awakening, 
you have an increased demand for Bibles and 
religious books and papers ; this has been 
found preeminently m ScoUand during the 
pre^nt year ; for ih the first six mondis of 
1874 the Scottish colporteurs have sold 
;^3,ooo worth more of books and periodicals 
than in the corresponding six months of last 
year. In the north of !^land, fifteen years 
ago, the result was similar. There were not 
a few drawbacks and disappointments in 
connection with the Irish revival; but some of 
its fruits were excellent ; and, among the rest, 
it furnished the Society with some admirable 
colporteurs, earnest, spiritual, and persever- 
ing men. The type of man needed for this 
service is peculiar. A kind of bookseller 
and missionary combined, the colporteur 
needs the qualities of both ; but especially 
he must be eamest> a lover of saving truth, 
and one who can commend it as opportuni^ 
serves. The colporteur is not a controver- 
sialist, at least not of the a^;ressive type, 
though he must be able to answer the ques- 
tions and refute the arguments of any who 
may open fire upon him. He is a man of 
peace rather than war; one who feels the 
truth as well as knows it ; one who can con- 
quer, indeed, but who stoops to conquer. 
Such men were furnished by the revival of 
1859; and to this day some of them con- 
tinue to do very efficient work. 

Here is a table giving some statistics of 
the Society. We may premise that its work 
is done through two channels — ^book-agencies 
and colp(»teurs. The former are very nume- 



rous, and are important in Ireland, where 
booksellers' shops are comparatively rare : — 



Year. 

1859 
i860 
I86I 
1862 

1863 
1864 

1865 
1866 
1867 

1 868 

1869 
1870 
187 1 
1873 

1873 



Book Agent*. Colporteon. 



2 


3 


8 


8 


68 


10 


"5 


30 


216 


34 


232 


37 


243 


37 


304 


50 


331 


50 


365 


S2 


429 


53 


435 


42 


472 


♦2 


419 




470 


S6 



FublicatioDs 

14.065 
21,563 
130,718 
344.038 
429.937 
431,888 
440,050 

545.7 U 
550.347 
602,610 
688,139 
677,906 
737.838 
778,011 
986.766 



The Society has had its ups and downs ; 
but it is apparent that it , has made very 
steady progress on the whole, especially 
when the column is studied denoting " pub- 
lications sold." During the same period, the 
sum received from the sale of publica- 
tions has steadily increased from £56$ to 
j^7,36i 7^. and the largest sum is 

for 1873. The recent appointment of Dr. 
McCloskie as secretary has done much to 
revive and stimulate the movement It has 
now three centres — Belfast, Deny, and 
Dublin, with a depdt at each ; and as all 
the depdts are self-sustaining, or nearly so, the 
subscriptions contributed to the Society are 
applied to the salaries of the colporteurs. 
Though the Society has so many as fifty-six 
colporteurs, and though other twenty (as we 
are informed) are labouring in Ireland apart 
from the Society, this is but a fraction of what 
would be needed to pervade the whole coun- 
try. From three hundred to five hundred 
would be necessary for that purpose; and 
there is no reason why these should not be 
provided ; for the object is a catholic one, 
aflbiding a very admirable basis for the union 
of all who desire to promote Christian work, 
that object being not to swell the ranks of 
churches, but to promote a taste for whole- 
some reading and to scatter and water the 
seed of the word. 

But is there really an opening for this 
agency in Ireland ? Are the Irish people 
taking in books and magazines, and can the 
Roman Catholic portion of them endure the 
sight of a colporteur ? Is not any Protestant 
functionary, disguise him by what name you 
please, like the red to the bull, an incen- 
tive to war, offensive and defensivA ? If alb 
accounts be true, tlBBgiftssare^ 



72 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



question is, Yes, and to the second. No. 
The Irish are becoming a reading people. 
Education is telling upon the peasantry, and 
inspiring them wiUi something of a literary 
appetite. The younger generation have had 
their intellect whetted> and are not content 
to remain in the state of ignorance in which 
their fatheis lived. It is very cheering to 
hear of this, even though some of the minor 
results may not be such as all would wish. 
For when the Irish peasantry fairly join the 
modem march of intellect, they will lose 
some of their peculiarities, possibly even the 
raciest of them. To some persons this is a 
distressing prospect. Is Irish charactes realty 
to be subjected to tlie levelling process which 
is making all of us in other countries so like 
one another ? Are the bulls and the blunders, 
the brogue and the blarney, the ready wit and 
lauglung pleasantry, that have given snc^ a 
diano' to tiie untaught Irish, to be-snperseded 
by a sober, matter-offact uniformity and cor- 
rectness^ Well, not entiiely, and yet in 
some dt^ee it may be so ; bat this is just 
the price we nmst pay for our civilisation, it 
is tbC' kind <rf price which in odier parts of 
the island we have paid foF the abolition of 
the feudal system, for our general educaticm, 
and for our universal system of railwi^&aiHl 
telegraphs. But in truth ' this is not the 
matter which we have to consider here. The 
question for us is — If the inteUect oi the 
Irish peasantry is wE^cing up, o» whst is it 
goii^ to be fed ? And is there any call on 
those who lov€ the Bible, aad the literature 
that is founded' on it, to step in and endea- 
vour to supply a wholesome' article for the 
appetite that is just b^;iiHUng to cry out for 
food ? 

It is hardly necessary to say that we are 
desirous to promote the siwead, not only of 
religious, but of good secular literaturej such 
as is furnished by the better class of news- 
papers and magazines, books of science, his- 
tory and travel, or works of poetry and ima- 
gination. Enjoying them ourselves, and find- 
ing that our more serious reading is rather 
stimulated than checked by the change of 
air and of diet for the mind which the more 
secular supplies, we should be very incon- 
sistent if we did not make others most wel- 
come to such reading, so &r as time and cir- 
cumstances allow. But it is not found that a 
special agency is needed for the circulation 
of such works ; they make way by their own 
attraction — -they can paddle their own canoe. 
The danger to be apprehended is, that when 
a taste for reading beconies common, the 
hmnbler classes of the population shall be 



left without a supply of the more spiritual 
kinds of literature, whether in the form of 
Bibles, or of books, or of periodical publica- 
tions. And the danger is not merely of a 
negative kind. There is a very serious risk 
of a merelyfrivoIousandexcitiDg class of cheap 
publications being poured upon the people, 
fitted, in all cases, to produce mental dissi- 
pation and, in many, demoralisation too. It 
is wonderful how such works, once they are 
introduced, tend to spread. The craving for 
excitement, especially in young readers; is 
very great, and in some it is a craving for 
illegitimate excitement. We remember hear- 
ing of a smart Ameriom publisher, who had 
got into his hands an unsaleaUe edition of 
Young's " Night Thoughts," sending them to 
cmtain of the States, where yom^ men,, as 
" fast " as they were ignorant, were induced to 
buy them, under tl^ imprcasioa that their 
contents were not fit for daylight- It is be- 
lierad that the sale of pernicious And imniaal 
publications, though consid«id}le, is not so 
extensive in Ireb^ as in other parts of the 
enapire; But how long will this state of 
things last ? To us it appears that Chri^ian 
men, interested in the spread of wholesome 
literature, have seldom had such a chance. 
The Canaanite is not yet in the land, at least 
not in great force. It is cotapaiatively un- 
occupied, almost inviting ChiKtiaa occupa- 
tion, and, if so, certainly inviting the efforts of 
the Colporteur Society. 

The colporteur, it must be remembered, is 
amissionaryasweUasabookseller. But this 
dovs not now operate against him; even in 
Roman Cathode districts. If he wcse a.hard 
c<mtniTersmlist, it would ; but when his aim 
is simply to make known the grace and love 
of Christ, antipathy is not roused. It is re- 
marked by many who know the people, that 
at the present time there is an unustui open- 
ness to hear the gospel, simply as God's 
mess^e. of love to men. The present writer 
lately attended a conference in Beliast, in 
which speidcer after speaker bore this testi- 
rtKHiy. Soon after doing so, he visited the 
southern part of the island, where he came 
into contact with leading members of the 
Episcopalian Church, and the testimony of 
the- nxmti was coafiRued. What the people 
seem to crave is not a controversial, but a 
catholic gospel. It is not a call to leave 
the Church of Rome, but a knowledge of 
God's way of salvation, leaving it to be 
settled by other considerations whether ornot 
they are to continue in that Church. " The 
latest reports I have received," remarked 
Mr. Berkeley, ^^^^^^^^^gj^. 



THE COXPOKmUR IN. IKEIAND. 



2J 



convinot ma -God is orenuliag present agi- 
tations Id out coimtty fx the bieaking up of 
the crust of superstition that has so long 
covered the minds and hearts of the mass of 
the conotiy, and that if the Church wcreinaw 
to enter in a ^uk^, loving we^ witli the 
gospel, she would find a wide door and 
effectual opened before her." 

We may give a better idea of the state of 
feeling by quoting a few passages from the 
colporteurs' journals. Here is a sample of a 
somewhat common entry. It is connected 
with county Antrim : — 

"In &Te monthS' I sold thiity^fin TcstanKnt? and' 
one faundnd pctiodicals, ineluding sheet almanacs, to 
Roman Catholics. I have also sold to them a good 
maoy books. Including what Testaments Protestants 
have bought to give to Roinaa- CathT>hcs, fort)--five 
are in thek hands tbTDugii mcismoe I eanw kesc. A 
Sootchnan boBghk fouc TestMncats this day for to 
give to his vorkeis. I had a long conversation with 
A Roman Catholic lately, who told me that he could 
argue the doctritw of his Church as well as the Pope 
hisoaelf. I sold bhn «, TesCameat before I left. SoM 
one to a man who was working upon the road. He 
said, ' I was looking out for this book this long time.' 
Roinan Catholics here are anxious for lomeuiiif to 
read. I keep what I think suits thenin (mm b£ <rf 
my caac. I rarely return htma withoot hariag soM 
somethine to them. Five, of them subcotibe to tha 
British Workman and Band of Hope. One man 
handed me one sovereign for to take the price of a 
Testament out of. Another man lumded me one 
pound note to trite the priae of a Pl ' wh y t ci i aa ftahn- 
book ovt of fi» lus litde boy. Tlua httle boy asked 
sne for a song-book, and I, knowing that his mother 
was a Presbyterian, introduced a I^lm-book, which 
hs father paid for wiHingly. Both the above are 
Roman Catholics; I spent a long time one day bat 
month with a Roman Catholic woman comparing the 
two Ttrsions of the Testaments. She repeated, the 
first two lines of Uie S3rd Fs&Im, and asked me to 
lo(A for that Fsaka foe her. She tead thb Fulm 
alcmdin mj lMaiing,V 

What follows is from another in. the same 
county : — 

"In two months I haw sold twentjM^e«' Douay 
TestatMnts and sixty^ovr sheet alnaoacs to RomBO 
Catholics. I have idso sold them several good. Ixx^, 
and a considerable number of periodicals. 

"Five of them take the British Worinnan and 
.Siim/ 0^/^c>^ monthly : two out of the five are given 
gtstis. A lady who takes an intmst in my work 
here told me,.sdter I came, to supply monthly all poor 
people who were anxious for periodicals, and that she 
would pay me for them. This lady is an Episcopalian. 
PfcRons- are often telling me how bigoted' the Deople 
ate, and one ^aid, ' It is a danger of a man's life to 
visit such a place, yet X have sold three Douay 
Testaments, in one day, besides the ' Blood of Tesus ' 
and a few almanacs, in that very place. A Roman 
Catht^ calkd me in off-the road as I was passing 
one da; this mootb for a Tastaneati" 

The following is still more interesting, as 
showing the particular texts by whidi a 
reader was impressed : — 



" I sold a Bonay.Testameot to a coastguard, and 
theeqxQCQ of the price remained unpaid. TMs summer 
be stopped me on the road to pay me, and asked me 
if I coold got him the Bible. I s^ I could, and 
adnd him bow he liked the Testament. He daekred 
that he had never seen so good a book, and that he 
loved it. He ako quoted the tests which had given 
him greatest pleasure, and these were the most strik- 
ing evangelical texts in the book, as, 'Because Cluist 
also died fior oar shu,' &c. ; ' Bring justified th ei efiire 
by faitht we have peace with Oodr' and other similar 
ones. He had lent the Testament to a policeman, 
who prized it so much diat he- was unwilling to 
retnm it." 

The people are. surely in earnest in thor 
desire to have the Testament or Bible, when, 
cadi being scaice, they oft«L ask the colpor- 
tenr to< take eggs in place .of it:. £vea priesto 
may be found among the customess. One 
mentioBs the books which he^oM.to a priest, 
and they included "The Life o£ Calvin^" 
" The Blood of Jesus" and " Grace abound- 
ing to the Chief of Sinners." Another tells 
of hia success with a nun, and. what fol- 
lowed . — 

*'A nan caught a colportenr in s hooae, and 
attacked him for visiting' her pe(^>l»i be sbowad her 
the Douay Teatsmmtf and; al laal; she bought it 
from him. The fallowing week' the nun taught the 
children in the convent school to read out of that 
Testament, and a httle girl infenned Ae colportenr 
that she had bees readnlg in tb*> thini chapter of 
Joinia Gosp^" 

It is remarkable that there is readier- access 
to the Rfmuuk Catholics in the south than in 
the north. Party spirit and party processioai 
account for the diferenoe. 

"I have- sold a good many copies- of the Douq 
Testament and Bime," says one whose sphene n 
labour is to IClUBtfl^ •* and' someof those vAobonglil 
them, said they wcv tong-wirinng to get the Bibl^ 
but coold not xoow-whsre to get it. If some of the 
I^esbytetians in the north could see how the Roman 
Catholiqs in the south value the Bible, they would be 
ashamed -of tiiemselves. I must say when I came te 
this plaee atfirst I vas^downcastt mtnot so now. J 
have, thank God, great encouiagtmcnt^ both froa 
Episcopalians- and Roman Catholics. Ther« is a 
place twenty-one miles from my head-qnarters when 
X go'once a month. A gentleman has fitted up'C 
house for pnycs-meetings during three nights in thi 
wedcj where soldiers and all- kinds may meet isi 
pmyer." 

In very dark districts the colporteur speaW 
of having no difficulty in speaking of re- 
demption through the blood of Jesus. " III 
county Cavan," says one, " on the confinei 
of Leinster and Connaught, I could talk to 
Roman Catholics about Jesus as much as ) 
liked." 

Tact and a little play of humour some 
times stand the colporteur in eood steady 

Digitized'by CjQOgl C 



24 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



" A poor woman/* says one of dienif " asked 
me for a dream-book, and I sold her the * Pil- 
grim's Progress ' at a penny. Another asked 
a song-hf»kf and I sold her the metrical 
psalms." 

Pictures are often a great help. Very 
recently a colporteur was sent to a locality 
where missions to Roman Catholics have for 
a long time been carried on mainly by con- 
troversy. He found it very difficult to get a 
lodging in that place, evei) from Protestants. 
He called on the secretary, asking what he 
was to do. A copy of the British Workman 
Almanac was lying at the moment on the 
table. "Take that in your hand," was the 
reply. " Go with it in a free and cordial way, 
open it out in every house, and ask if they 
want any almanacs." At the end one 
week the colporteur wrote — 

' " I did just what 3K>a bid me. I showed the British 
fVorkman Almanac ifi every house, and X have already 
sold twenty<four to Roman Catholics^ and several 
good books besides." 

Reference is often made to the sale of the 
Douay Testament. The colporteur would 
fare poorly but for this vade-mecum. How 
does he come to possess it ? Thereby hangs 
a tale. So long ago as 1820 an edition of 
the New Testament was published, without 
any notes, bearing the imprimatur of the then 
Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, and 
having likewise an extract from a rescript of 
Pius VII., which is printed in the front of it, 
directing the faithful to read " pious books, 
andj above all, the Holy Scriptures, in the 
editions approved by the Church." This was 
first published by the Koman Catholic autho- 
rities when they were striving after Catholic 
emancipation. They subsequently withdrew 
it from circulation, but the stereotyped plates 
fell into the possession of Protestants, who 
deem it better to supply the Domy version 
than that the people should have none at all. 
The sight of the imprimatur of the Catholic 
bishop and of the rescript of Pius VII. assures 
many a Roman Catholic that the book must 
be a safe one, and hundreds of copies are in 
this way sold every year, which would pro- 
bably never have got into circulation had it 
been avowedly a Protestant book. 

It deserves to be added that this work, 
interesting in itself, is sometimes doubly so 
from the circumstances of ^ose by whom 
it is carried on. Among the reports, for 
example, we find notice of a blind colporteur, 
and of some who work in the service as 
volunteers. In the case of tlie blind man. 



colportage is undoubtedly pursued under 

difficulties, but not without success : — 

" G. is blind, and goes about chiefly in a Protestant 
district as a missionary and a vendor of books. He ha; 
committed to memory several sermons, which he de- 
liven in omntn plaiceB to large numbers of people 
who crowd to bear him. A minister tells me of a 
snowy night on which he was confined to his house, 
and G. addressed a meeting in his church, and de- 
livered, in good i^le, one of Burder's Village Ser- 
mons." 

It is still more interesting to hear how 
" in various parts of Ireland zealous Chrisrian 
people do good by distributing gratuitously 
or by selling the Scriptures and other reli- 
gious literature. These are volunteer col- 
porteurs, and we have need of many more of 
their kind. We have been told of a case in 
Canada where students spent their holidays 
in such work ; and we hope to see the day 
when Irish tourists and pleasure-seekers shall 
endeavour to be serving the Lord in what 
wiU benefit the country and really enhance 
their pleasure." 

I have quoted enough to substantiate 
the friendly and favourable opinion which I 
have been led to form of this movement in 
Ireland. In every view it seems most hope- 
ful, if duly supported by the liberality and 
the prayers especially of Irish Christians. It 
was both gratifying and reassuring, after I 
had come on independent grounds to think 
of it so favourably, to find my judgment con- 
firmed by some Episcopalian friends in high 
position, such as the Archdeacon of Water- 
ford and the Bishop of Cashel. If the judg- 
ment of such men commends itself to Irish 
Christians generally, the extension of the 
scheme must be immediately contemplated. 
The training class carried on by Mr. Mac- 
Ghee, of Dublin, affords an excellent oppor- 
tunity for preparing agents, the instruction 
and the tone being both enlightened and 
Christian. Irish Christians have often felt at 
a loss how to proceed in trying to do good 
among the people ; if God now provides this, 
as one of the agencies most likely to be 
effectual, it is incumbent on them to do their 
best to spread its benefits over the country. 
To make Ireland an isle of saints in the 
scriptural sense of the term, as she used to 
be, were surely a glorious aim. Is Uiere not 
enough of true patriotism in her borders to 
give a new impulse to a cause which has 
begun so hopefully to work in this direction, 
and which promises, through God's blessing, 
to contribute materially to the effort to make 
her " great, glorious, and free" ? 

% G. BLAIKIE. 

Digitized by V^OOQIC 



A BENEDICTION. 



at 




K held her hand one minute in his own ; 

Murmured, throLgh parted lips, "God help youj Sweet;" 
Left her alone ; and in his vacant place 

The twilight stole wLth soft and noiseless feel. 

He passed away through dewy garden paths. 

Flooded with waves of moonlight, weird and white ; 
And mystic scent of leaf-veiled lilac bloom, 
Wafting its incense to the ioul of night. 

Between the setting and the rising sun, 
'e-irV Adrift her spirit wandered, till the day 

Woke the new story of a life hegun 

Out of the grave of one that slipped away. 

A twilight lifCj of gentle thought and deed. 

Of seltless purpose, and reliant prayer; 
A spirit moving in the misty light 

Of springtide perfume on the evening air. 

Standing alone, her life was doubly blest. 

By this dead love, and love of sorrow bornj 
Till tender Death sang all her soul to rest. 

And merged spring twilight in the summer mom: 

C. BTIOOKE. 



a6. 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



THE CHURCH BEES. 

By thk Rev. GEORGE B. WHEELER, M.A., Rbctok of Baixtsat. 



*' "TTIEY are all out and hard at work to- 
day, your, reverence, although it be 
Sunday. You mind the hum of them, like 
the deep sound of the organ far att*ay," 

It itas our old and feeble sartancM^ Mis. 
Garland, who spoke, looking uptotbcchordi 
roof just under the sterile. Faan bir— tH 
two large sUtesy stzcanKif becstaoK pgMmg. 
foFtih incestanlLyf a-dnkckwdof idiecBf.iriHcir 
seemed to be in. coaatMifc inotioiif hoog over 
the: place. As tbegr tsaaad out nader 
the shites theypaosed a mxnmmtvarlimStm^ 
inf rooCr tried tfaor vi^s, which Command 
in- the simshine, and then joined the moving 
cloud above. Fi-om the outer edges of the 
swafm bees innumerable continually darted 
off. If you have good sight, you caa see 
that some make for the garden of the old 
Manor House, where spicy-smelling flKwets 
grow ; some fly to the Curragh* where sheets 
of golden furze continue still in bloom ; while 
some spread to the rolling hills, which to-day 
have a hue of puce about them from the 
blossoms of Irish heath. As old Mrs. Garland 
sfud, the hum of our church bees, as of all bees, 
is. softy low, and deep as the diapason of an 
organ. On fine sunny days you can hear tbe 
sound in the air ever so far away, like the 
tones of many £olian harps played on by the 
wind. Should you come early for even-song, 
and sit awhile upon the ancient tombs, with 
your feet on the carpet of short, crr^ grass, 
yoa will see them aU returning home richly 
laden, some powdered over with the ycUow 
pollen of scented flowers, many with little pink 
or yellow balls of wax or gum from buds of 
trees, fastened to their thighs ; but the main 
body carries in unseen the precious honey to 
^■e away for winter dme, when there are no 
flewen and the air is cold. You can see how 
w^ is made at once for those who seem to 
labour under hearjr burden^ and how they 
are helped up the sloping slates- by other bees, 
sat aparty I verily believe, for that special 
duty. Be merciful and tender, if you find a 
w««T one resting on your dress, or painfully 
toiting through the dwaaf clover which grows 
upon, the graves ; they may have been caught 
in a sonuner shower, or perhaps the moisture 
oath&gnusarwhefe-tbe shade of trees lies dark, 
has wafe and chiUed them. They will unfold 
their wings and diy bhem,. aad^ after a short 
circling, fljght,. wiU soar axa^ ia home. Bees 
wUl neversting yoar handa^ yoa.do not try 
to brush them off, The wanodc o£ your palm 
will cmnfort an unwilling loitera: ; very soon 



he will stretch out his hinder legs and brush 
down his wings, and, piping a Tittle song of 
thanks, will fly upwards. Some people pre- 
tend to be bee-charmers because bees dp not 
sting them ; their secret is not to be afraid of 
them or hurt them. Bees have a wonderfol 
amount of instinct, and, like dogs, and horses, 
seem to know their frsauls. 

It is twenty years and more since these 
bees tautcUed through the air to Ballysax 
stcefh. Villagers saw tboo xoifing^ like a 
ball. toMids Ibft irmniihiiiiiH, but the sex- 
toiMBS waa ringing our sweet church bell on 
that sunny Sunday morning in July, They 
liked the sound, perhaps, and turned aside 
a hundred yards or so, and passed into tbe 
steeple tlurough the gratings of the beUry. 
They found the place tenanted by bats, 
whose odour is disagreeable to the bees. It 
happened, however, that there was an aper- 
ture or slit where one slate overbtpped 
anodier and the cement had crumbled away. 
Through this the bee scouts crept and wan- 
dered over the great area between the slates 
and oak-linii^ of tbe roof. They saw ties 
and crossi-beams and rafters all in order, 
from which millions of bees could hang their 
combs. There were no enemies, for bats 
could not enter through the narrow crevices, 
and there were no swallows to bear off the 
tiny insects on the wing. So the scouts re- 
turned, and made favourable report. I am 
told that the bee-camp rose in sudden com- 
motion, and leaving the steeple passed into 
the roof; there they have increased and 
multiplied and stored their honey until now. 
I want to tell you that our bees have never 
swarmed, and, although we have sought 
diligently, we have never discovered a sLuigh- 
tered drone. I suppose there is food enough 
for all in that vast co-operative store. Yet 
they have ample room to spare, and there- 
fore no poor drones are murdered, and no 
swaiming colonies are driven out for lack of 
food or territory. 

Three yeais ago I was. induced by (he 
cleverest trout-poacher in all my parish to 
remove a slate or. tM'o ofl" the roof,, and to 
try whether we could not obtain some of the 
honey everybody knew to be treasuied up 
there. So plestifial is it, indeed, that in very 
hot suanacr days some of it melts and 
triddes through the Qeiling and down the 
waUa o£ mf naxiow vestry; which is situated 
in the basemoit of one tower of the church. 
The walls are alL stained with it, and the 



nir[iti7PH 



Cooglp 



THB CBURCH' BEEB: 



colour mixed with whitewash is certainly not 
pretty. They prepared for the attempt as> if 
for the storming of a citadel. They had 
lights and sulphur and masks, and gloves 
tied- roond the ivrats^ but the bees were on 
die watch. The giuurds, vfatch ai^ear at 
twilight, inarching up and down and crossing 
each other's path befope the entrance of the 
hive, announced the presence of an enemy. 
The two bee-hunters were daring men, and, as 
I know, skilful poachers of hare and sahnon, 
but they were forced to retreat. They came 
home smarting with stings ; the angry bees 
had followed them long after they had 
escaped from the churchyard, and had got 
by some means under their clothes. Tfaey 
managed to bring home a latge and heavy 
didi of honey, but it was old and dark- 
coloured, and had an unjdeasaat medicinal 
-effect on tiiose who had courage ta taste it. 
They "told me that on putting theiz heads 
into the hol^ caused by the removal of the 
slates, they diacoveowd that the bees bad hung 
their combs under the second tier of raiiters, 
where the new honey could, npt be reached 
without sawing away portions of the timber 
which supported the roof. Tlie combs, they 
said, hmig down like stalactites in a cave. 
So on the next wet day, when the bees could 
not venture out, they replaced the slates as 
well as they could, taking care to leave aper- 
tures in the fresh mortar for the bees to go 
in and out. There they have their citadel 
and magazine, no man taring to make them 
afraid. You can see them on any warm day 
in summer working away, each in his own 
order, and all singing as tbey work. I wish I 
knew their language, and could &nd out how 
many queens they have, and whether their 
laws- are the same as those which, prevail 
among bee-commnnities caged up iafiurow 
hncs: We are all proud of them somdiow ; 
and I love, for I am an oid man now^ to it^ 
about them to the visiibon frcau the Cumgb 
camp, who come to papers at ouc Loretto 
in the wildemess. 

When there is .soft mnsic in theair w^Jiont 
a breath of wind,^ our Sunday-scholars sauy 
their pleasant lessons in the. ruins, of the old 
ckauntry of the chiatih seated on fragments 
o£ carved pillars. The churchyaid has been 
for centuries the last home of the villagors, 
and it is brautiful as a garden widi weeping 
larches, and holly-trees, and laurels, and tail 
box and dwarf pines, and sparkling clover 
enamelled with a thousand flowers all over 
and round the graves. Here we sit, the 
children and I, talking of the Blessed Master, 
who had a loving eye for every object of 



nature, and spoke so tenderly about the birds 
of the air, about the twittering sparrows, 
about the young ravens crying for their food, 
about the lilies of the field which outshone 
all tlie glory of King Solomoa. There was 
a litUe gh;l in my-clau^ and I made her proud 
one dav by tdHng. her that her name — 
Deborah— really meant a be^ and that a 
Deborah is mentioned in the* oldest and 
sweetest pastoral story of the cAd Scriptures. 
We traced out this andent. Dehors^ who 
lived so Toy many hundred' yeoES ago, and 
we found that she was the nurse of fair 
Rebekah when that maiden left her father's 
house and chose to go as a trusting bride to 
Isaac whom she had not seen. And De- 
borah was sent with her* to tend the young 
wife in her new duties to her -husband and 
his parents. Well she musr have performed 
her duty amidst many trials, far when she 
died Jacob buried her with great solemnity 
and sorrow under an. <dd oak tree, and all 
wept so much that the -oak was ever after- 
wards called " The Tree of Weeping."! And 
t^iere was anoUier Deborah, who, like a queen 
bee, ruled the whcde people of Israel, and 
pronounced her decisions as she sat under a 
palm-tree. I She it was who put fire into the 
heart of cautious Barak, son of Abinoam, and 
made him wage war upon the tyrant Sisera, 
and hers is the noble song of v'vctxxy which 
is read among our Sunday lessons. § But all 
the children luiew the wonderful riddle of 
strong Samso&y an^ about the swann of bees 
which had built their combs and placed their 
honey in the skeleton ribs of the dead lion.|| 
I have said that our bees followed the bee- 
btmten. oat: of the churchyard and stung 
them ; and so of bitter enemies the hoary 
Sdriptiiresays " they chased you,.as bees do," 
and like bmfi tfaey compassed Dimd round 
ahouLlt And as tlie bee-^-the working, 
earnings lo]>atl..bee — m not handsome in ap- 
pearance, not hal£ so^isandaisne: aa the huge 
humble beey with his bands of glos&y- black and 
brilliant oraa^, sa die Sooi of Sirach warns us 
that: although. " the bee is little among flieSj 
yet h«^ fruit is the chief of sweet thmgs."** 
Travellers tell us.that.bees are more abundant 
in Faleslitte even than ittAsqniar'tf and hence 
Palestine - is the land iririch. ficnns with milk 
and hoBCry, set apart for tiw people of Israel. 
Thus we leant soaetiiii^ even from our 
church bees jia we sit among the graves and 
hear them singing, — something which may do 
us good in thiswoold and ia> the worid to come. 

* Gen. xxir. 50. t Qen. xxxf. 8. See marg. read. 
i Jadm iv, 9. | jfidgot v. H Judget xik. 6. 

^Devt.1.44; Fsalmcxviii. 13. ** Eodes. xi. 3. ■ 
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38 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



JESUS AND THE RESURRECTION. 

" I UB tlw Resurrection and Um life." 



LIFE eternal for the dead ! 
^ow the trumpet where they lie. 
With the breath of Him who said, 

Fear ye not, for it is I." 
Fear not, O thou waking heart 

For the bands that close thee round. 
Jesus, standing where thou art, 
Hails thee with the joyful sound. 

Listen, for the moment flies. 

And its greatness is for thee. 
At thy Saviour's word arise 

Incorruptible as He. 
Unto sin for thee He died, 

Burst for thee the tyrant's chain, 
Cast the broken boAd aside, 

Never to be worn again. 

Not a stem upbraiding law 

To thy fettered will is sent, 
But the Spirit that can draw 

All things to His rich intent. 
Love that must indeed possess, 

Calls thee from the pit within ; 
Love in all its tenderness. 

All its triumph over sin. 

With that power of God in view 

Now thy inmost self deny- 
See the Man that Jacob knew 

When he baited on his thigh. 



While those outstretched aims of thine 
With the Lord of Life prevail. 

Suffer in thy flesh the sign 
That He will not let thee fail. 

Full of grace to keep and lead, 

Full of energy and rest, 
Jesus blesses thee indeed, 

And thou art completely blest. 
Powers that from His presence flee 

Watch thy dawning joy to dim. 
Only trust His mastery ; 

Hold the victor's place in Him. 

Thee the upward path shall prove 

Sorely wanting oft and all ; 
But that strong supporting love 

Lives within thy softest call. 
It will humble, cleanse, refine, 

In thy shame i^ ^oiy hide ; 
For its perfectness is thine. 

And thou hast no life beside. 

Health and freedom for the dead I 

Sound the trumpet where they rise. 
Show the enemy th^ dread 

Bound before their shrinking eyes. 
Bid them in the light remain. 

Never of its power afraid. 
Tell them Jesus comes to reign 

In the nature He has made. 

A. L. w. 



HARVEST-PRAISE. 



THE rapid growth of large cities in the 
civilised countries of the world is often 
remarked upon by observant and reflective 
persons. It is a subject for wonder, for ad- 
miration of a kind, also for a kind of appre- 
hension and fear. For who can tell what 
issues, social, political, and, above all, reli- 
gious, may come out of this process forty or 
fifty years hence, if it should be unchecked 
so long 7 London itself is in this way a new 
problem in the history of the world. With- 
out attempting to raise the whole question 
of city life in its influence on the dvilisation of 
the future — a very complex one, and full of 
diflicnities — we may notice this particular 
aspect of it, certaiidy not unimportant, that 
year by year an increasing number of people 
are bom in, or brought into, London and the 
cities of this island, and are so held by neces- 
sity, or preference, in city life, that they seldom, 



some of them never, even sa the process of 
husbandry in any of its stages. They are 
being increasingly withdrawn, or withheld, 
from mral sights, and sounds, and associa- 
tions. And, by consequence, they find it 
more difficult to frame their hearts to thank- 
fulness in harvest time for the kindly fruits 
of the earth. Not through impiety or designed 
thoughtlessness, but by lack of the provoking 
opportunities, and through disuse of the old 
habit of harvest thank^ving. The whirl 
into the country, or through it rather, in the 
excursion train, is a very imperfect interrup- 
tion of city life, and gives little or no real 
insight into country ways. Too many are in 
the company. There is too much noise, too 
much excitement, too much motion for the 
indulgence of that meditative mood which is 
so eminently needful to any real acquaint- 
ance with nature and her ways^and processes ; 

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HARVEST-PRAISE. 



39 



and if the excursion is made on the Sunday 
the chief labours of agriculture, happily, will 
not be seen. The plough lies resting at the 
comer of the field ; the horses are at grass or 
in the stables ; the sower or the reaper, as 
the season may be, sits by the cottage door, 
or wends hU wa^ to the coontiy church ; 
and the country itself as a scene of active 
husbandry is to dty people not unlike -what 
tlie city streets would be on a Sunday to the 
people of the country. We are not by this 
description of things drawing out an indict- 
ment. City people are not to blame for 
being what, and where, they are. Traders, 
and workmen, and clerks cannot also be 
farmers and shepherds. It is their misfortune, 
and not their fault, that the discharge of their 
duties and Ae earning of their bread in the 
cities holds them so completely apart during 
the greater part of life, and most of them 
during the whole of it, from sentient contact 
with tile earth on 'vrtiich, and by which, they 
live. In a sense it were well if we could all 
be more " of the earth earthy." A closer 
observation of the various, beautiful, and be- 
neficent processes by which we are fed would 
surely furnish some aids to gratitude, and 
help us to utter some harvest praise. 

But since this may not be, to any great 
extent, the next best thing is to think / to put 
ourselves, as best we can, in imagination, in 
the fields, and to consider the whole process 
of husbandry, from the first dip of the plough- 
share into the soil to the gathering of the 
last handfuls of the ripened grain. The time 
has now come. If our song of harvest-praise 
is not set to heart music during this month of 
October it mil be a littie more difficult to 
raise it in November, and almost impossible 
during the closing month of the year. " Be- 
hold, now is the accepted time "• — this mellow 
month, that seems to hold in its lap all that 
tiie other months have been able to bring to 
it. The summer came early and lingered 
long, but it has gone at length. The fields 
are bare ; tiie leaves are falling ; the furious 
winter winds are beginning to pipe in the 
chimneys, and to whistie tluough the leafless 
trees ; the sun is giving daily less light ; and 
the long dark nights are coming and the 
fogs, and tiie frost, — and the famine ? Yes, 
that might be, but it is not Again the earth 
has bloomed ; the valleys have been covered 
.over with com, which has been gathered into 
the garner, and there is enough the world 
over — whatever inequality of distribution there 
may be — for all the needs of both man and 
beast. " What then shall we say unto the 
preserver of men?" Surely that "praise 



waiteth for Him " in our " Zions," and in 
our hearts. " Praise waiteth " — literally 
"Silence-praise to Thee, O God." Praise 
as it were collected and concentrated, and so 
enlarging itself by silent thought in the hearts 
of Zton's children as to be ready to burst out 
into a song at the appointed time within her 
gates — praise in view of tiie goodness that 
has "crowned the year," that has filled so 
many gamers, that has allayed so many ap-' 
prehensions, that has come as wage for so 
much labour. The gift is so fi^esh and new 
that it is hardly yet out of the hand of the 
Giver. The corn-stacks are not yet all 
thatched ; the dusty miller has hardly yet 
begun to grind the bread of the year ; the 
grain-laden ships have not yet come to 
harbour ; hundreds of them have yet to battle 
with the ocean storms, and through the pro- 
tecting care of Him " who stiUeth the noise 
' of the seas, the noise of their waves," they 
will come ^eljr through ; not one in a hun- 
dred of them will come to grie£ God's hand 
is opened now, not onty in each particular 
country, as giving its fhuts to its own people, 
but from one coimtry to another, and across 
the oceans and seas. We say sometimes, 
half moumfully, that the tender flush of the 
spring is for ever gone, and all the glory of 
the summer months. Not so, in every sense. 
They have not perished ; they have become 
something elsej they are gathered into God's 
hand. " The grace of the fashion " of tHera 
is gone, but the substance of them is pre- 
served. The growing is over, but thcvgnnd- 
ing is to begin ; and, after all, when it comes 
to the push, a fruit-tree is better than a flower- 
garden, and the apple on the tree better than 
its own blossom. To poor hungry creatures 
who cannot live without eating and drinking 
—who are mostiy dependent on their three 
meals a-day if there is to be any living with 
them— com in the sack is'better than when it 
is shooting into ear, or beginning to yellow 
in the field. God " prepares com for men," 
and " provides " for this year by year. " The 
outgoings of the morning and evening '* 
have chaige concerning this until it is done. 
For this " the ridges " are watered, and " the 
furrows" settled, and the softening "showers" 
sprinkled far ami wide, and " the springing " 
blest from first to last 

Now, shall we take our stand in the centre 
of a farm field ? It shall not be in the winter, 
to see the ploughing and the black crows feed- 
ing in the furrows made ; nor in the spring, 
while the sower goes forth to sow, sleety 
showers sometimes glimmering in the cold 
sun^ne; nor in the summer prime, wh^^ 



30 SUNDAY MAQAZmE. 



the stalk is strong, and the hreeie -nuJces 
waves of beauty which chase and play with 
each other across the Tusthng field ; nor need 
it be even on a harvest day, ^en' reapers are 
bu^, and song and taik are loud, and the 
fennel's face smiles benignantly as though 
in answer to the smile of his plentiful field. 
Let it be in late autunm, and on a field 
already reaped and ^eaned. 'Tia one of 
the BDOSt desolate sights m nature, jet 
one of dw most snggcstive. hook at the 
stiong stnbble — stroi^ ears of com grew 
there. And the readers most have been 
here in bands, for you see their footmasks in 
different dmiensions ; and the heavier 4oot- 
maiks of the hones which drew the wain ; 
and the wheel-marks of thewain, lightly touch- 
ing the soil at first, but godng deeper, into the 
ground as it passes 3iang and receives more 
and more , of the iheaves. Fallow die wfae«l- 
tzack, aad yon will see that the ^te-post has 
been pressed a little out of position by the 
heavy-laden waggon — God's full-hand potting 
.aside the (risstcuf^on. Follow on up the 
. lane, to die stadc^joxd, and what a M^t I 
Ho>w gattefiil, -how bcwuiiul diose .shapely 
cones of wealth I Here God's hand is full 
indeed. Thoe is more wealth in it, more of 
reai property, of what men, as. oi^ganized,- sen- 
tient creatures, really need for their short stay 
here, than in all the ibaoks of the country. 
Or shall we take ano^er of the figures of the 
harvest-psidm, and say that " the river of 
God" here makes a kiad of. pause, or seems 
to do so, collecting it» 'wters as in a deep 
and wide pool, ready to be pwired into a 
hundred aCeeams supply ? Aad shaU we 
go along the banks of this liver of material 
tife' aad see how it gives off its seveml 
streams ? Go into the bam, and look .eU the 
threslMng--floor all covered ever with .the 
golden pieoes. Th^ are lifted from the 
floor somewhat mixed and put into the &m- 
ningHnill, whence immediatdy they come out 
again — the chaff winnowed away from them 
—pure gold, if the mixture of metaphor may 
be allowed, of the pvae gold of nature's sanc- 
tuary, paid out the hand of God fbr.the sup- 
port of his large iiunily here on earth. Follow- 
ing the banks of this river, you come to the 
mill. You oan hardly get into it for dust. 
But it is the dust of a pure beneficence. And 
that white miller, whatever he nuy be per- 
sooally, is, in his official work, one of God's 
angels ; and his dusty coat, to those who can 
read ins^nia, is more beaiki&l than the sol- 
dier's sculet, than the lady's exmine. Still 
follow the river. Tis not quite so easy now, 
for it begins to divade itself into streams. 



The streams of it make glad the cities of men. 
It flows into ftvfy house. It gathers in the 
thrifty matron's ample meal-chest It smcdces 
on her gridiron. It fills her children's hands, 
and dimples their faces with smiles. It comes 
out in various forms of skill for the ddecJta- 
tign of the invited guests. In more earful 
preparaiaons it goes into the sick-rooms, and 
there is gently ministoed to the weary, to 
the slee^ess, to the pain4ortured, to the 
djrii^. It is but bread that poisheUi, It is 
tut water after drinking which men thiist 
again. Yet in one fonn or other they are 
taken by God's childnn up to the very hour 
when " they shall honger no more, neither 
thirst any. more." 

But indeed, if we have the observing 
faculty, and ' the dis^position to use it-^>. if 
we are -disposed to be thoughtlul on the sub- 
ject at, all---«-e hardly need goto corn-field, 
or ^canuy, or mill; it- will .be enmigh, with 
our eyes open, to go along a city street, 
. where, as aiach as almost anywhere else, we ' 
may-see the flow of " the river -of God which 
is full of water." Dr. Johnson — ^wbo was 
no .^«at lova of the oountry-— would say, 
" Come, Jet us take a walk along fleet 
Street" A walk along Fleet Street will suit 
us too, excellently well; or along a m^ich 
humbler street than Fleet Street, if only it he 
one for trade, and with the open shop fronts. 
LiOok -at them <xie by one, .as we pass them 
leisurely. We shall fhid that they are nearly 

oonceming themselves with the supply of 
the two cardinal wants of human creatures — 
food and raiment Food in its plainer forms 
of bcead and flesh, and in its more refined 
preparations -adapted to cultivated and dain^ 
tastes. -.Raiment of endless foam, and tex- 
ture, and colour — cloth for the peison, dioes 
for the feet, furniture for the house, hanuss 
for the hoises. ^^t a great number of 
shops, and trades, And manufactories, and 
skills of different kinds are needed to clothe 
a rich man who is tastefiil and ambitious^ito 
clothe hini so that the raiment shall flow 
freely over him and all his belongings; as 
also to feed him and all the creatures that 
compose his state ! And all this comes mi 
of the mrth. The bread has ccane dhectly 
from the earth ; it is of the last oom that was 
reaped. The cattle that hang now as flesh 
were .pasturing not long ago. The shoes 
were their Uving akins. The fruits were 
hanging on branches, and drawing all dieir 
richness out of the soil and out of the air. 
The fiuniture was alive .and growing in. the 
boles of forest trees. The woollen cloth was 
moving over the fields on sheep's backs; the 



I 



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HARVEST-PRAISE. 



cotton growing -in the soils of the sunny 
south I ttic silk was in the molberry leaves 
that fed the worm that spun it ; tfae metals, 
from iron md bcass to gold and jwels and 
^dous stones, were in the soil. And the 
coal that . lights our houses and streets, and 
drives our great machines on land and sea, 
is just a laid-up harvest of bng, long ago. It 
all grew in trees and plantsand herbage. A/I 
ioma out of the ■.mrih. If " God made the 
countiy *' and " man made the town," man 
made tfae town of the countiy, and feeds it 
and iiUs it, jear by year, -with fte country, so 
that if for even only one year the country 
should withhold supplies, men 'would begin 
to think witii prolound senousness ; they 
woold begin to see that v^-stored dty. shops 
are not quite matters of ooune ; and they 
wmid b^n to pray ; our (Aurcbes would be 
•open then, and " all flesh " would " come " to 
Ctod— with a cry 1 Ah, why not come to Him 
now — with a soog ? For surely it is He irto 
tluis feeds us at tiie braast of our nourishing 
motiieT'the eaarth, "^ving us richly, all things 
to -enjoy " — " filimg our hearts iriith food and 
gladness !" We- see the lircr flowing past, 
«ncamped as we «re on the banks of it,, and 
drawing oat of it arery.day. But we do not 
get the true benefit even of what we dnis 
draw and consume, tmless' we turn inthouf^t, 
now and again, aiui follow die river up, and 
Xl^j ui^l at length we see it isniing &om its 
piiinal fountam " dear as crystal, out of 
Itoone of God and of the Lamb." I lift 
anything t^t feeds myself or my honsebtdd, 
a loaf of bread, a cup of water, an apple — 
each thsg is, token by itself, a little streandet 
that has come to me somehow. I- follow it 
back until, chemically, I lose it in the soil, in 
the cloud, in the sea, in the sun. But Isoon 
transcend in t^s pocsait every visUiIe thing. 
I soon go deeper with tiie plummet of my 
socmding -thought than de^st seas, and 
higher on the #ir)g of ooBtempbtion than 
h^est peaks, and farther tfaroagh spacetfaan 
tfae li|^t of sun or star will guide me. I open 
die veil of phenomena, and see, by &ith, 
tire hand of the EveT-linng Woricer. I look 
on ^e aaasUeeted &ce of the God who feeds 
*' all flesh " on earth, and all spirit in heaven 
— and then I-am at rest. " Praise — silence- 
piaiseto God !" 

If we thus praise God for his great giving, 
of rocrse we mean to accept and K«the gift^ 
«nd it is only^natnxal that we should now say 
something of this. 

UsB.— ^He who is duly thankful forharvest- 
plenty, not only-Mwy, but in real consistency 
must^ taice of the ^ts of the earth for his 



own sustaiance and comfort. There ar^ pro- 
ludily not many, but there are certainly some, 
who really need to be taught and enjoined to 
eat and drink. Moderately, of course, yet 
frankly and generously. Some are neivot^y 
afraid of all the appetites, and tlunk it safest 
always to starve them. Unfortunately, some 
who ought to starve their appetites feed diem ; 
and some -who ought to feed them, distrust 
and starve them, and it is difficult to teach 
duty to the one class without, imwittingly, 
increasing danger to the other. But dearly, 
it must be best for each person to be, physi- 
cally, the haman creature God has, in the 
(nf^anism He has given, designed him to be 
— to be that fully and without reserve ; and, 
in Older to tha^ there ought to be no fear -or 
shame in ' wholesome, moderate eating and 
drialciikg. The wise nan of the (dd time, 
after much observing of the matter from all 
sides, came to this as one of his conclusions, 
" that every man should eat and drink and 
enjoy the good of all his labour, for it is the 
gift of God." Indeed he says, " there is, 
nothing be^ for a man " than this — nothing 
•of its own kind, the meaning must be. "The 
fear of God,and the keeping of his commaod- 
raents " is inftaitdy better, is die end of the 
whole matter, here and everywhere. But in 
order to this, let him eat and drink — i, e. let 
hiin make for hdmaelf asfar as he can, always 
observing the laws of honour and parity — a 
.stoong physical basis on which to buikl up 
this great spiritual life. .Let -him work for 
his 'bread ; and then eat his bread ; and 
pnuse God both for the work and the bread, 
in Uie keeping of his coaunandments. 

Yet, lest there should be mistake, let us 
add this other necessary test of the whole- 
soineness and smicerity of our gratitude — 
Moderation. A generous and fiill use of 
the gifts of God- which sustain and refresh our 
' physieal life should yet always be with some 
designed and- conscious reserve. There can 
be no true silence-praise in a man's heart who 
is halHtually given to excess in eating and 
drinking. Tbose who aie competent to 
judge say tliat nearly as -much injmy comes 
to health by over-eating as by over-<ki»king. 
"There- is nothing better for a man than to 
eat and drink " — in moderation. There is 
nothing wocse than to go, habitually, to 
excess. Gold pieces are good things ; but 
he is a foolish captain who would load his 
vessel with them so deeply that, in Ute first 
gale, she will go down. lyLmy an overloaded 
vessd. sails this sea of human life. Many a 
noble ship, as to oiganism and structure, 
goes to the depths. "%i|ifi^^^yfE*^(^tj 



3a 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



throat if thou be a man given to appetite." 
Better be a starveling than a glutton ; if that 
were the alternative, which it is not " Look 
not upon the wine when it is red, when it 
giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth 
itself aright — watching it, admiring it, 
tasting it, fondling it as though it could 
neither "bite" nor "sting." Better be a 
Timothy needing the counsel, "Take a little 
wine," than a Nabal who may some night die 
in his cups. 

But perhaps the very best proof of grati- 
tude for the wonderful gift of God in harvest 
is readiness to give agiun — as far as the thing 
may be in our power. In other words, if we 
have true silence-pnuse in our hearts towards 
the bountiful Father of mankind, and feeder 
of all creatures, we shall help Him in the — 

Distribution. — Plenty comes out of the 
earth every year to feed every man, w6man, 
and diild, abundantly. God's instruments, 
so long as they are uhintelligent and uncon- 
scious, serve Him well, and yield all He 
asks. Hie sun comes out cheerily at his 
bidding and shines upon the just and upon 
the unjust with the most complete impar- 
tiality ; and as brightly into dens of dirt, 
disease, and crime, as into the happy homes 
of virtue, as mto the very temples of worship. 
And the showers make no choice of ^elds to 
fell on. Be the owner churlish or bountiful, 
he will get his share from the merciful clouds, 
and no wind whispers dissent or resistance 
to the decree tiiat sends it forth. And 
no stream runs up-hill And no tide is 
late by a moment of time. And not a 
leaf refuses to grow ; and the result of all 
is that — after a good deal of what, for want 
of a better name, we call waste or loss, by 
storm, by frost, by drought, by flood, by mil- 
dew — there is abundance every year to put 
on the great table of the world for the feeding 
of the children. But when the matter comes 
more into the hands of man, and human wills, 
and passions, and interests, be^n to play 
their parts in the actual distribution, we have 
great inequalities. Hie medianism b^ins to 
jar. The river is less pure. We see Ae sad 
look of pover^. We hear the cry of famine. 
And some are unfortunate; and some are 
idle; and -some arf dissolute; and helpless 
children go begging bread. Yet, withal, it is 
well that men should have the distribution. 
It would not be a benefit to mankind, it 
would be, rather, a degradation of the human 
femily, if God were to make a machinery so 
exact that it would throw plenty, daily, into 
every house. It is far better that men should, 
of themselves, make laws, pursue industries, 



amass properties, exercise charities, give 
brotherly help. This is a large part of the 
education of the world. God is training the 
world, under Christ, to know and feel itself 
one family. Ail have charge of each. Espe- 
cially the strong, the prosperous, the happy, 
have charge of the weak, the unfortunate, the 
mis^ble. A man's ne^hbour in the geo- 
graphy of heaven is not of necessity he who 
lives next door, but the nearest human 
being who needs help, the sick whom he can 
visit, the poor whom he can relieve. Are 
we thankful for the harvest ? Then we shall 
hear this word, " To do good and to commu- 
nicate forget not, for with such sacrifices God 
is well pleased." He is well pleased to see 
the world-lxmk kept open whatever may be 
the run upon it by poverty and femine, and 
to see his managers and administrators 
handing out the golden supply. He is well 
pleased to see his river flowing out from those 
to whom He knows it has in fulness flowed 
in. The poor we have always with us ; and 
sicknesi, and disease, and death are never &r 
from our doors. Yet we shall have to seek 
them out. Like the stricken creatures of the 
wood and the field, they hide themselves. 
The deserving poor don't whine and beg 
clamorously on the streets. If our benefi- 
cence were as prafect as that of God, it would, 
probably, follow it closely in form as well 
as in substance, and be more largely indis- 
tin^ishing and impersonal — than it ever is. 
It IS far?too soon yet to attonpt the univexsal 
and impartial application of such a method 
of bentiKcence. We cannot safely treat "the 
good " and '* the evil " among men as God 
does in his sunshine and his showers : we 
should soon have half the world in poor- 
houses if we did. But it is not too soon to 
begin the applications of it wherever, and in 
what degrees, we safely can. It is none too 
soon for all the foUowers of the great Master 
to walk as closely as they can in his steps 
that they may observe, not alone his gifts, 
but his divine iwiyf of giving, his considerate- 
ness, his delicacy, his sympathy with human 
nature, through and thxou^, in flesh and 
spirit, and his divine skilfulness in yoking 
the one into the service of the other ; and in 
the unwearying constancy with which He 
"went about doing good" until the hand 
that had been always open was nailed, still 
open, to the cross. " Freely we have re- 
ceived," from and through Him, bread that 
perisheth and bread of life, and the One law 
of safety and honour and blessedness to us, 
is, that we shall " freely give;" ^ 



A MISSIONARY PIONEEIL 

A MISSIONARY PIONEER. 



IN the year 1814 a young man appeared 
before the Examining Committee of the 
Directors of the London Missionary Society, 
-who, to Mr. Matthew Wllks's question where 
lie had been educated, gave the plain but 
8u^;estive answer, In my bedroom." Many 
are the men who have devoted themselves to 
missionary work since then, who could re- 
turn a similar reply. The regretted Dr. Hen- 
derson, medical missionary to China, was a 
footman, and would snatch a moment at his 
book as the carnage rattled along a country 
road; Dr. Andrew Davidson,of Antananarivo, 
was a bookseller's assistant, and managed to 
pull the pith out of many an uncut volume that 
found its way for a night to his lodging before 
going on to the purcliaser, no worse surely 
for the service it had rendered him ; and there 
is the great Dr. Livingstone himself whose 
traversing- carriage did duty likewise as a 
reading-desk, adding for ever a new associa- 
tion and glory to the spinning-machine. But 
all these are Scotchmoi ; and indeed we are 
somehow more accustomed to think of them 
in this pasfflonate pursuit of knowledge under 
difficulties than of Englishmen. Why it 
should be so> however, is not so evident, for 
there is nothing national in the thirst for 
knowledge, so touched and sustained by the 
grace of God, that difficulties vanish before 
it and become its servants. The young man 
of whom we are to speak, in his own history, 
sufficiently proves this, though prior to him 
perhaps there was no one who could have 
more unqualifiedly proclaimed himself his own 
educator. " In my bedroom," he replied to 
Mr. Wilks without hesitation, and his after- 
lite, with its patient oidurance and passionate 
devotion, was all in keeping with this uncon- 
^ous but highly characteristic reply. The 
name of William Ellis has found a place in 
the first rank oi missionary pioneers, and 
his life, passed amid great variety of circum- 
stances and vicissitudes, is so charged with 
lessons of sanctified self-help that we are sure 
our older readers will admire as they read of 
it, and some of our younger ones perhaps 
gladly draw a lesson from it. 

William Ellis yas born in London in 1 794, 
where his father worked in a candle-factory. 
While he was yet a child, the father, who had 
been piously brought up, became a Uni- 
tarian **of the most liberal and advanced 
ty^;" and there can be no doubt that 
William was indebted to his mother for much 
in his earlier tnuning that helped to determine 

IV. N.S. 



him to the decisive step he finally took in the 
cause of missions. " With a fine person and 
a frame by no means robust, she was dis- 
tinguished by great tenderness and sensitive- 
ness of spirit, easily depressed and prone to 
despondency, which ill fitted her to bear up 
against trouble, or to endure the inevitable 
hardships of pover^. Her gentleness of dispo- 
sition and her blameless life, however, gained 
her many friends, and , she continued up to 
her last days to be very much respected by 
all who knew her." 

Of distress and poverty she had her own 
share. Trade failed, and things were at such 
a pass with Ellis, that he would have enlisted 
as a soldier had it not been for the claims of 
his wife and child. He by-and-by finds 
work at Wisbeach, and removes there ; but 
drcumstantss were still so bad mth them 
that, in spite of sobriety and industry, William, 
a boy of six, had to take employment at the 
candle-factory at the rate of two shillings 
a week — "winding cotton-wicks with one 
hand, while with the odier he nursed his 
little brother, thus relieving his mother of a 
portion of her task, and adding his mite to 
the family earnings." Even at this early age 
a deep love of flowers proclaimed itself in 
him, which strengthened the more knowledge 
that he acquired, and this determined his 
choice of a trade, which was that of a gar- 
dener. Meanwhile, however, he had learned 
to read, and had attended a Unitarian school 
in an intermittent way ; and Cook's ** Voy- 
ages," which he had come across, opened up 
to him a new world, giving him an idea of 
other lands and other races of men, and in- 
vesting them with an interest he never ceased 
to feel. 

Before he was twelve he was mfuntainin| 
himself by work in a market-garden ; and no 
only so, he " contributed regularly fit>m lii 
small earnings to the support of the rest 
the family, the only indulgence that he seemo 
to have allowed himself being the occasioiU 
purchase of a coveted book.'' The record i 
the first sixpence he received for himse 
(what he had earned before had gone inl 
the common stock) is very characteristic 

" The money was given me for holding 
gentleman's horse, and I spent it in the pil 
chase of a small second-hand book of travel 
I well remember two things in connectU 
^th this incident — the ambition of indq)eD 
ence it awakened, and the strong desire 
travel it stirred within me," ^ i 

3 



34 



SUNPAY MAGAZINE. 



But his love of reading did not detract 
from his activity and attention to his work. 
The clergyman's wife notices him, and says, 
" That's a shrewd, handy lad ; we want just 
such a young boy at home." Inquiry is 
made, and soon he is with them at Thomey 
Abbey, where he enjoys many advantitfes, 
being trusted and respected by all. And he 
owed something to the religious teaching 
during the three years he was here. He then 
went to another clergyimui at Outwell, in the 
same capacitjr, working sometimes in the 
garden, sometimes witfam doors. The love 
of reading increased ds he grew up, and Mr. 
Hardwicke says the only fault he could 
find with him was " his disposition to loiter 
in the library and thumb the books." But 
his intense love of flowers was a practical 
corrective to any neglect of duty to which 
his studiousness might have tempted him ; 
so that his master deeply regretted him when 
he procured a situation in the nursery of a 
Mr. Bassington, at Kingsland, and set forth 
for London. " The parting from bis paients 
and brothers and sisters was a sore trial to 
them all. It was with extreme reluctance 
that hb mother especially gave her consent, 
.... But the necessities of the family, the 
advantages of the change, and the prospects 
of advancement it held out were considera- 
tions too weighty to be resisted." 

Ellis himself records tliat the experiences 
of the first few months in London were not 
such as he looked back on with pleasure. He 
mixed with bad company, if he did not actually 
yield to temptation ; but luckily the neces- 
sity that was laid upon him to do all he could 
to better himself, brought him once more 
amongst people whose example was salutary 
and influential. He entered the service of a 
Mr. Sangster at Newington Green, where he 
found the advantages of being a member of a 
Christian household. He was required to 
attend family worship ; he had a room of his 
own over the stable, . where he could enjoy 
perfect privacy, be studious, or engage in 
prayer; and, instead of following his father's 
advice and finding out the Unitarian church 
to which he had been directed by him, he 
went with his master to the Rev. J. Clayton's, 
where he received the deepest impression. He 
soon felt a strong desire to join the church, 
and was received as a member in February, 
1814. He began to take a warm interest in 
Christian worl^ and became a Sunday-school 
teacher. He attended the meetings of the 
London Missionary Sode^ in 181 4, where, 
as was the case with many others — a cer- 
tain Mary Mercy Moor among them — his 



heart was stirred at the accounts given by 
the Rev. J. Campbell, who had only a few 
days before returned from a two-years' absence 
in South Africa, visiting the various mission 
stations there. In November he formally 
made offer of himself to the society, and, 
after examination, was accepted. For a 
short period he devoted himself to study. 
He had to meet representations and argu- 
ments, and protests of all kinds from home ; 
and there was a peculiar element of pain to 
him in the case of his father ; but he stood 
6rm. 

*' The pain of sepiratioB, to use bis fathoms irovda, 
from ■ a SOD so dutiful, so good, and so loving,' was 
greatly aggravated by the religioos views of the parent, 
who looked open the mission as a fool's errand at 
the heat, and opoi, moreover, to the graver chargv of 
being a wild and iiUatnated scheme to propagate error 
among a distant people, who were mucn better let 
alone. The old man was a philosopher, nevertheles<i. 
and finding the task of dfisuakkui hopeless, prepared 
to summon his fortitude to bear the inevitable parting. 
The mother's trial was a still harder one; but she, too, 
learned to school her grief. >Ier distress was not 
embittered by any element of reproach, and from the 
depths of a loving heart she could only follow her be- 
loved with her blesaiag and her prayers. The 
amiable wonan's cstrane fondneas for her son may 
be iofened ficom a Tcioark he once made to his yoangcst 
sister, * I am afraid,' he said, ■ yon are like your 
mother in one thing, in which I do not wiah yon to 
resemble her — you idolise me.* " 

He applied himself with all his heart to 
study under Dr. Pye Smith, attended medical 
lectures at St. Bartholorfiew's, and lost no 
opportimity of preparing himself for his work, 
even taking lessons in carpentry and music, 
both of which he afterwards found useful. 
In September he was struck down by illness, 
and lay for three weeks. This is the first 
record in his diary after his recovery : — 

" Lord's Day, Oct. 15th, 1815. — After hanng been 
ccmfined to my room for nearly three weeks, I was 
once more permitted, by the mcrcv of God, to attend 
divine worsoip in the morning, ana heard Mr. Parsons, 
of Leeds, preach in the Tabernacle. In the artemoon 
I went to mstruct the children in the biick-fields near 
Newington. Afterwards addressed the children and 
their pareiUs from Exodus i. 14. This was the first 
time I ever addressed an adult congregation. Felt 
peculiar pleasure In this opportunity, though much 
confused." 

On November 9th he was married to Mary 
Mercy Moor, and they sailed from Gosport 
on the xQth of December ; and after a tedious 
voyage, in which tliey suffered a good deal 
from contrary winds and other causes, they 
reached Eimeo on the Z3th of February, 181 7. 

The London Missionary Society, which 
had been formed amidst the enthusiasm ex- 
cited by Captain Cook's discoveries, had 

made the South Sea Islands their first field of 

Digitized by Vji. 



A MISSIONARY PIONEER. 



35 



enterprise. The earliest group of missionaries, 
whowentoutin 1 797, landedat the Society, the 
Friendly Islands, and the Marquesas, in either 
place to meet only with death or disaster. 
It seemed as though there was no hope of a 
door of entrance being opened, when m 1812 
a sudden change took pkce in Tahiti. The 
heart of the King Pomare was turned to the 
truUi, and the missionaries were invited back to 
the islands, vbvih excited certain of the chiefs 
to hostility against Pomare, who only saved his 
life by escaping to Eimeo. Finally, however, 
the insurgents were put down, and the way 
fairly opened for missionary effort, and it was 
on this sphere of work that William Ellis now 
entered in the fresh vigour of his youth. A 
settlement had ^ready been made at Pape- 
toai, but after consideration it was agreed 
that MessR. Crooks and Ellis, who meant 
soon to seek other quarters, should go to 
Afareaitu, on the other side of the island, ajud 
found a settlement there. Mr. Ellis, while 
thus initiating himself into the outs and ins 
of missionary life in the most practical way, 
would also bfa aiding his brethren. Soon 
houses were built, and printing began, fOr 
this was to form a special feature of the new 
branch of the mission. 

" Simultaneously with the erection of the printing 
and dweUiiijg-housea, the study of the native language, 
under the instruction of (he senior missionary, Mr, 
Davis, formed patt of the multifarioiis engagements of 
every day. Mr. Ellis, though his residence in Eimeo 
was only to be temporary, employed oimself also in 
clearing, enclosing, and cnltivatmg a gaiden-i)1ot 
His mechanical ingenuity was also brought early into 
use, and though not equal in this respect to his con- 
tamporaiy, John Williams, he displayed considerable 
skill; maUng in l^meo the first wheelbarrow that had 
ever been seen in Uie islandt and allprwards hnilding 
a boat, in which he performed many adventurous 
voyages. The caipecby required in the construction 
of the house and furniture was likewise the work of his 
own hands. In fact, the life of a missionaty in these 
remote stations had in it, barring the solitude, much 
of the Robinson Crusoe element, and called for like 
facolties of patience, tact, faventk», and fertility of 
resource." 

The interest excited among the islanders 
by the sight of the printing was unexampled. 
The king came to see ; strangers arrived from 
other islands ; and the little sum demanded 
for the Spelling-book, the Catechism, or the 
Texts was not only willingly paid, but the 
natives in crowds transferred themselves into 
foragers for bark or sheepskin when the dif- 
ficuldea of finding a substitute for cardboard 
b^n to delay the binding. Meamriiile the 
missionaries' wives were busy teaching needle- 
work and domestic aj^liances; Mrs. Ellis 
having an added charge in the illness of her 
second child, on whose account frequent 



I journeys were necessary to the other side qf 
the island for medical advice, and t!ie con- 
sequent toil and danger very great Pomare 
remained a true friend of tiie "teachers," 
and with his a'id a missionary society was 
formed in Eimeo, just when Mr. Ellis was on 
the eve of leaving for his more permanent 
destination on Huahme, the most easterly of 
the Socie^ Islands. On Huahine they were 
warmly Irelcomed by the chief, and readily 
received a site for their station. Veiy soon 
a house and printing-office were built, and 
regular work begun. 

"The inhabitants," we are told, "not hanng 
enjoyed the presence of mtssionaiies amongst them, 
were far behind those of Eimeo. None of them 
could read, and thoogh the ancient idolatry of the 
country had been abandoned, and CJuistiamty nomi- 
nally accepted as the religion of the land, very little 
was understood of its distinctive principles or moral 
obligations; and the raissionaiies had to Jay the 
foundation of their teaching in the simplest elements 
of religion and genual knowledge. The chief of the 
island was Mahine, a man of dedsion, courage, 
remarkable int^igence, and benevolent disposition, 
who became one of the eariiest and moat ooosistsBt 
converts to Christianity, and continiud throughout 
the steady friend of the mission." 

So ignorant wertf the people that the mis- 
sionaries had to take great care not, in any 
form, to encourage the idea that a favour was 
conferred on them by the natives coming to 
be taught. No presents were given, nor 
inducementsjof any kind ; yet this anecdote 
shows that die idea had ^ a hold on the 
minds of the people : — 

" On one occasion a young woman, who had been 
taught the use of the needle, after receiving a number 
of lessons and attaining some proficincy, applied for 
pa>Tnent. "For what?' asked the teacher. 'For 
learning,' was the answer ; ■ you asked me to learn,^ 
and I have learnt. What am I to get ?' It was 
explained that she had received, and not conferred, a 
benefit ; that the teacher had not profited by the time, 
patience, and labour that had been freely given for 
the sole advantage of the pupiL She was, however, 
encouraged by the promise that in the future, as she 
had now acquired tiie necessary skill, she should be 
paid for any woric the might do for the mission 
family ; she was abo told ^t she might fairly earn 
a suitable remuneration by working for others." 

While Messrs. Williams and Threlkeld, 
under pressing invitation^^ook up their abode 
in anotbn island, Raiatea, Mr. Ellis and Mr. 
Barff showed their sagacity in introducing 
various industries; they planted ^e sugar- 
cane aiul cotton, and got out machinery to 
spin and weave the latter, teadiiim; the natives 
these crafts at the same time tlut a church 
was being built, classes instituted, and the work 
of forming a congr^ation going on. Captain 
Gambier, who about this time made some 
stay in the islands, and had ample oppoitumt I 
Jigitized ByVaVJUVl 



36 SUNDAY 



ties to observe and compare, says, "The 
accounts 'of the missionaries are, beyond mea- 
sure, modest" 

The boat that Mr. Ellis had built while at 
Eimeo was now found of great service in 
moving about among the islands ; and though 
sometimes, io the sudden storms of these 
regions, great risks were run, no serious acci- 
dent occurred ; and the voyages were valuable, 
for they allowed the brethren to consult to- 
gether and aid each other in many ways. 
Though Ae missionaries endeavoured to keep 
apart from all pditical questions, the teunhing 
ofChiistiani^ soon made itself felt in a desire 
to adopt something like a code of Christian 
laws. These were submitted to the mission- 
aries, who could not refuse to aid in such a 
work, nor help being gratified at the marked 
progress of the people under their teaching. 

The presence of the government cutter, M£r- 
maidy gave an opportunity of conveying some 
native teachers to the Marquesas, as the cap- 
tain intimated that he meant to touch there. 
Accordingly Mr. Ellis set forth on the voyage 
with two native teachers and their wives, to 
be settled among the wild people of these 
islands. Mrs. l^Us, meanwhile, had gone for 
the sake of her health, which was not good, 
on a vi^t to Mrs. Orsmond, at Borabora j and 
returning, after being tossed about in a storm, 
heard that the Mermaid had been taken by 
pirates. Eight months elapsed before the re- 
turn of the Mermaid; and the effect of the 
torturing suspense on a system already weak- 
ened by suffering, may be conceived, notwith- 
standing that the natives, who designated her 
" their little lonely widow," were unceasing in 
their attentions to her. 

Owing to the circumstances which caused 
the delay, the Marquesas were not visited ; 
but, [urovidenttatly, the missionaries were led 
to the Sandwich Islands, where Anna and his 
wife were located ; and, before Mr. Ellis left, 
he was made to give a [nromise that he would 
return to them with his family, and, while 
still retaining his connection with his own 
sodetyi join the American mission in the 
Sandwich Islands, which he aoxtrdingly did, 
amid the r^ets and tears of the poor Hua- 
hine people. " One woman in jparticular, 
who had wept much when the sailors were 
heaving up the anchor, went out on the rocks 
at the edge of the harbour, stood waiting till 
the ship should pass into the open sea, anxious 
to give, by wavii^ her hand, the last token 
of affection, and obtain the latest possible 
glance of her beloved teachers and friends." 

On Mr. Elli^s arrival he entered heartily 
on the work, endiusiastically studying the 



MAGAZINE. 



language, which he found nearly allied to 
that of Huahine, and aiding in the printing. 
Preaching, teaching, and exploring tracts of 
country that had not before been visited by 
white men, the time swept on, the most re- 
markable change passing over the peopfe. 
But the ancient fire of superstirion was' not 
extinguished ; it smouldered still ; and an inci- 
dent to which we must refer, almost made it 
leap forth again in dangerous flame. In the 
tract of country which Ellis had visited there 
is a volcano, which was believed to have its 
own deities, with their priestesses, who now 
tried to inflame the people against the mis- 
sionaries, on the ground diat ever since they 
had come to the island they had bred mis- 
chief. Large sections of the people would 
have sided with them ; but, on the chiefs 
being referred to, they firmly upheld the 
missionaries, in which, luckily, they led the 
people along with them, and the result was 
that the priestesses, by-and-by, had to leave 
the island. The death of the Queen-mother 
soon after this, in the Christijui ^th, did 
much to establish Christiani^ in the hearts 
of the people. An incident occurred at this 
time which very well illustrates Mr. Elba's 
wonderful coolness and adf^)tability : — 

" A uilor on board a ship in the harbour, while 
losdine a cannon, had his huid and fore-arm fright- 
fully shattered by the prematnre explosion of the gun. 
There was oo surgeon near, or anywhere within 
reach. Mr. Ellis was sent for, and aaw at once that 
there was but one alternative — amputation or morti- 
ficaticm and death. He explained the state of the 
case. The sailor begged tnat Mr. Ellis would per- 
form the opa^tion. Thus urged, and Icnowing that 
there was no othermeans of saving hfe, he consented. 
It is doubtful whether he had ever seen the operation 
performed ; he had probabljr onljr heard it described 
and read detailed descriptions in surgical books. 
He did not, however, hesitate. The arm was am- 
putated, the arteries duly tied, the flesh and skin 
brought together, and secured by ligatures, straps, 
and oandages. The patient was lef^ comparatively 
«»nfortable, and overwlielmed with gratitnae." 

Meantime Mrs. Ellis's health was so bad 

that she was ordered home. For several 
months, in spite of many domestic pre- 
occupations, Mr. Ellis wrought on unre- 
mittingly among his people ; but he also 
began to feel the effects of his labours, 
and to look forward to a period of rest, 
which, in fact, had become a necessity. An 
offer 0^ a passf^e in a merchantman to 
America — from which a ship home could 
easily be found — at last enabled them to 
leave the Sandwich Islands, among the pro- 
found regrets of their American friends, and of 
the natives for whom they had done so much. 

We do not feel that it is needful for us to 
recite in detail the history of those years, dur- 



THE iORD'S CONTROVERSY. 



37 



ing which Mr, Ellis so ably represented the 
London Misnonaiy Society as traveUing 

agent, in the course of which, too, he lost 
tt^t wife who had been such a true helpmate 
to him; nor to tell of his fruitful work as 
secretary to the society afterwards, or of bis 
marriage to the author of "The Women ofEng- 1 
land ; " nor of his short pastorate at Hoddes- i 
don, or of his visits to Madagascar as represen- ! 
tative-of the society — the work he did for that ; 
island, and the happ;^ manner in which he ; 
managed to solve difficulties that required • 
the utmost delicacy and wariness. These | 
things belong to history, and axe so recent I 
that they cannot have passed from the j 
memcnies of any who take die least interest | 
in .missionary matters. Besides, full records I 
of these things are to be found in his admir- 1 
able books'. Our aim has been to refresh \ 
recollection of the earlier period of Ellis's 
life — so full of lessens both for yoimg and 
old ; and our task has been made all the more 
easy by the admirable volume, published by Mr. 
Murray, from the pen of John Eimeo Ellis, the 
missionary's son — ^who has kept sin^larly free 
from the besetting errors of filial biographers. 

Of William Ellis, it may be said that to 
great earnestness and devotion, he added 
peculiar intellectual force, -tact, strength of 
will, and general resource. Otiierjnissunaries 



there have been with, it may be, more refine- 
ment, more culture, but none has had more 
of true spiritual discernment ; he saw eveiy- 
thing in the light of principle, and never lost 
firm grasp of essentials. Dr. Allon, in the 
concluding chapter on his character and work 
says well, "Mr. Ellis's patient industry, 
ready acquisitiveness, and versatile aptitudes, 
very signally contributed to the greatness of 
his work. His passion for Botany, cultured 
by his early occupation as a gardener, enabled 
lum to turn his opportunities of observation 
to good account, and to make important con- 
tributions to botanical science, as well as to 
introduce into different places important food 
plants. He was a good archseoI<^st. He 
taught himself the arts of printing, carpentry, 
cotton culture, and photography. He pos- 
sessed some knowledge of medicine and 
surgery. He was no mean linguist, and 
easily acquired languages. * In his mental 
composition there was, too, an imaginative 
vein, which found expression in poetry of 
considerable excellence, and in those rich 
pictorial descriptions of the people and places 
that came under his observation, which made 
his books so charming." On the whole, we 
may safely say, that when in June, iZ-ji, 
William Ellis passed away, the grave closed 
over one of England's greatest missionaries. 

p. y. REID. 



ACCEPTANCE 




There is merit in the Saviour 
Each and all may freely use ! 

Merit that can have no limit, 
Since the Saviour is Diviae, 



Claiming which, on God's own warrant. 
Pardon, life, and joy are mine. 

Merit in His death atoning. 

Taking all my guilt away. 
Merit in His life, TulfiUing 

All the law I shoold obey ; 
Merit that secnres me access 

To the throne of grace on high, 
Merit bringing eveiy blessing, 

Grace to live and grace to die. 



IN CHRIST. 

Jesos, who for us possesses 

All this merit taat we need, 
In the court of heaven appearing 

Ever lives our cause to plead ; 
Ever may we ask with boldness 

All tiiat to His worth is dne, 
"While the promise of acceptance 

For His sake stands firm and true. 

Lord, I come, my guilt confessing, 

Seeking pardon through Thy Son, 
All my hopes on Him are resting, 

On His woric, for sinners done. 
Thou the mighty plea snst^nest, 

Blottest out the sinful past, 
And Tl^ word which speaks forgiveness 

Says I shall be saved at last. 

WIXXIAH T. M'ADSIANB. 



THE LORD'S CONTROVERSY. 

' Hear the word of th« Lord, ^ children of Inael : for the Lord bath a controveny with the iahabitwitt of tbo land, 
becMUO l3ten u no tmth, nor mercy, nor knowledge ctf God in the lud."-'Il0SBA iv. i. 



IT will be readily perceived by every one 
that the book of tiie prophet Hosea 
divides itself naturally into two parts, the 
second of which commences with the verse 
just read. The earlier' chapters relate parti- 
culars concerning the prophefs family life, 



and rejxresent to us rather the active side of 
his ministry as it was expressed in open and 
significant conduct; while in those which 
begin at this point the method of teaching 
by example is entirely discontinued, and we , 
have only the framework of ^^f^^MM 



38 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



courses, the so^nd of his spoken addresses, 
whether consisting of promises, warsings, or 
denuDciations. The concluding chapter forms 
virtually a supplement to those which have 
gone before, and is therefore susceptible of 
independent treatment, and may or may not 
be taken in connection -with the rest. 

It is not a little remarkable, that feature of 
the prophetic ministry, that it was twofold in 
its method of teaching : first, by significant 
action, and secondly, by simple exhortation. 
It thus combined the diaracteristics of 
example and precept. - Many of the greater 
])rophets were not only chained with a mes- 
sage to their people, but were also com- 
manded to be a sign to them. This was 
especially the case with Isaiah, Jeremiah, 
Ezekiel, and Hosea, while with .Ajuos and 
Zechariah, the prophet's personal visions were 
made the means of communication to the 
people at large ; and thus in a vety notable 
manner the Hebrew prophets exhibited in 
themselves, in a marked and exceptional de- 
gree, the features and elements of instruction 
which are more or less to be perceived in 
the life and works of all the greatest teachers. 
It is not only the spoken word which teaches, 
but the life also is fruitful instruction. It 
was not oi^y the words but the actions also 
of Christ which were fiaught with teaching. 
Christ's miracles were sigiiificant as well as his 
parables, and the meaning of his parables 
was that which they suggested rather than 
expressed. 

Postponing then for a while the lessons of 
Hosea's life, let us look to the teaching of 
his spoken message. 

He begins it thus, " Hear the word of Uie 
Lord, ye children of Israel." We have seen 
that this message belongs with every appear- 
ance of probability to the middle of the 
eighth century before Christ, while the light 
of Greece and Rome had not yet emerged 
from gross darkness, ai^ the Pharaohs of 
Egypt were worshipping the scanibsus and 
the ibis. We have then to account for this 
remarkable feet, that at that time in an ob- 
scure comer of Palestine such woras as these 
could be spoken and heard. How was it 
that here alone throughout the habitable 
world such words as these could be pro- 
claimed and were proclaimed ? " Hear the 
word of the Lord, ye children of Israel." 

l-'or what did they mean? Were they 
merely a figure of speech ? Did the jjrophet 
seek to impose upon his nation by aLiopting 
a lormula that was hijjh sounding but unreal ? 
Wc must bear in mmd tiiat the established 
teli^ifiou of his nation was the idolatrous 



calf-worship. The kings of Israel almost 
without exception have been handed down 
to us as having done evil in the sight of the 
Lord, The worship of Baal was the domi- 
nant worship of the kingdom of Israel. How 
then is it possible that a formula such as this 
should have had any special weight among 
the people as an imposing soimd that they 
would be likely to hear with deference? If 
in itself it was unreal, it would have had no 
more weight than a proclamation in the name 
of Baal, and probably not so much, its 
whole weight lay in this, that it aroused the 
conscience as a reality. There was that in 
the national heart which it awoke, and to 
which it could appeal ; it bore its own c\-i- 
dence widi it in having the true ring of 
sterling reality. If the prophet spoke in his 
own name what he endeavoured to invest 
with divine authority, then considering who 
they were that he addressed, it does not 
appear that he adc^ted a method likely to be 
appreciated. 

But there was that in idolatrous Israel 
which recognised the voice of the unseen 
speaker who found a mouthpiece in the 
prophet. He was a speaker they had heard 
of old. Their national history was full of his 
utterances. He had si>oken to their fathers 
amid the thunderings of tlie mount which 
burned with fire. His name was associated 
with an historic past which was familiar to 
them, and which they could not forget. Their 
present national life was in vicious contrast 
with his declared will, and therefore they 
could not but recognise hia voice. And wlien 
the prophet declared that the Lord had a 
controversy with the inhabitants of the land, 
there was that in his words to which they 
could not give the he. 

The prophet then was a man whose ear 
was kept close to the voice of God. He 
heard that voice more plainly than his fellow- 
men, but when he uttered it they could not 
but hear it too. Why? Because it awoke 
an echo within. The Lord was not only an 
historic God, he was a God that spoke to the 
moral sense as Baal could not speak. 

Some of you have probably read those 
wonderful pages containing the analysis of 
human motive and human guilt lately written 
by George EHot. What is it which gives 
them their marvellous power? It is tlic 
tracing uf conscient c to hur bcciet homu. It 
is the revelation of a moral sense wliich none 
can help feeling. It is impossible to say- 
that there is no right and no wrong wliun we 
read there the niabttrly dissec'aon 4*f-lhe lv."o, i 
and are ourselves con0j|H^ Jkjs^^u^^ | 



THE LORD'S CONTROVERSY. 



3^ 



both. Now that is the true jnophetic power 
without the additional direct prophetic mis- 
sion. It was given to Ae prophets of old to 
vield this power and something more than 
this. It was given to them to say, " Hear 
the word of the Lord," "Thus saith the 
Lord." That they did say it is at once a 
patent &ct and also the proof of their poorer 
to say it. Because the nature of the message 
which it ushered in was such as to compel 
the verdict of the conscience. The Lord 
had a controversy with the inhabitants of the 
land, with His people Israel. He had a con- 
troversy with them because they were His 
people, and- because He had this controversy 
with them they wore shown to be His people. 
He had no such controversy with the heathen 
of dd. He left ^em unrebuked. He sent 
them no prophets. He awoke with no out- 
■wsad voice the slumbering inw£Uxl vtnce, but 
left its spontaneous uttemnces untutored and 
undisciplined. Bat to Isael He sent a race 
of men charged with a message from Him, a 
message which is as audible now as it was 
then, and can never become obsolete, which 
was real in its tA'nc/ as well as its mora/ 
authority, and was proved to be so inasmuch 
as it was sent to Israel aloAe among the 
nations, but which being sent once for all to 
Israel was to be of equal authority to every 
nation to the end of time. 

The Lord had a controversy vi&i His 
peo[de. He has a controversy with 311 people 
and with all nations. He is not indifferent 
to the conduct of any people. He is directly 
opposed to them on certain grounds. He 
has set up a witness to the right in every 
human heart. He has made it impossible to 
ignore, silence, or destroy this witness, and, 
though the tendency of human nature is to for- 
get it. He has ordained that man ^all never 
be reminded of this witness and be able to 
deny it. The veiy existence of such a story 
as the one I have referred to is a proof of its 
existence, and reveals a foundation of inde- 
structible moral fact upon which may be 
reared a superstructure of fiirtha divine 
teaching. 

And Uie Lord's conttoveisy, which Hosea 
proclaimed, had a tfarMfold cause of com- 
plaint; it was because there was no truth 
nor mercy nor knowledge of God in the land. 
The Lord then desires to find trath, mercy, 
and the knowledge of God among every 
peopleJ Wherever they are not found he has 
a controversy with that people. About the 
first two there can be little doubt ; about the 
third there may be somewhat more. Let us 
consider them. Truth — how hard it is to 



find, how hard it is to keep. Truth being not 
merely what we speak, but what we think and 
what We do. There is a tmth of action and a 
truth of thought, as well as a trttth of speedi. 
Truth of speech has a prescriptive place of 
honour among men, and a lie is branded as 
a thing of shame; but there is a spirit of 
truth which can suffer wrong even when it 
may be difficult to bring home an actual lie. 
Some persons are so deficient io their sense 
of truth, that they seem to be unconscious of 
the difference between truth and falsehood. 
There is a love of tmth which despises reli- 
gion, and a love of religion which despises 
truth. The days in which we live are charac- 
terized by the most daring sceptidsm and 
by the most indiscriminating credulity; the 
sceptician in professing a zeal and love for 
what is true has rejected the truths and the 
credulity in professing to be valiant for the 
truth has embrac&l much that is conspicuously 
untrue. But, besides this, how many there 
are to whom religion is a thing of sentiment 
■ — a gratification of the taste, an opiate to 
the conscience, a sacrifice to the tyranny of 
custom and respectability rather than a matter 
of principle. This is because in such persons 
there is an absence of truth. I fear it would 
be a very startling revelation to many of us 
to be shown the exact relation between our 
habitual conduct in life and our habitual reli- 
gious profession, the precise bearing that the 
one has upon the other ; yea, I believe it is 
more common for the habitual conduct of 
life ta shape the character of our religion, 
than it is for our religion to mould the con- 
duct of our lives. Believe me, my Mends, 
that rd^on is worth nothing which is not a 
matter of abiding principle, which does not 
seek the truth, keep the truth, and live the 
truth, by thinking truly, speaking traly, and 
acting truly. 

And then mercy. The Lord had a contro- 
versy with Israel because there was no mercy 
in the land. He is against us because we 
have no mercy. Of coulee we do not for one 
moment suppose that there is any comparison 
between the prophet's times and our own, in 
tkds respect, between his land and ours. In 
an age of anarchy and confusion, such as that 
in which he lived, there can have been but 
small regatti paid to lawful order. We may 
well be thamcful that in our time and in our 
country the national conscience is disftinctly 
on the side of order, most sensitive to any- 
thing like oppression. There is no cry which 
awakens a more ready or enthusiastic response 
in our day than the cry of liberty ; and I 
presume that liberty for all 



40 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



nymous with mercy to all men, must at least 
be directly opposed to oppression for any. 
And yet there is a subtle connection between 
truth and mercy, a connection which suggests 
that a great zeai for liberty may coexist with 
much violence done to mercy ; and, doubt- 
less, the liberty of the tongue is not seldom 
a terrible foe to mercy. There are those who 
seem to possess the talent of saying disagree- 
able things ; who either have not the sense, 
or, having the sense, have not the mercy, to 
see that what the^ say is unkind, because it 
will be felt as painful. What can be more 
merciless than the lig^t and downy shafts of 
a woman's polished scorn? what so cruel, 
though bloodless, as the conversation of which 
" at every word a reputation dies ? " And yet, 
perhaps, there is nothing that lies more open 
to the Lord's controversy in this respect than 
the so-called religious press of this country. 
If you want a specimen of the merciless 
venom of an unbridled tongue you may find 
it in the columns qf the religious newspaper, 
against which neither station, dignity, nor 
chara<^er is prooC Though we may decline 
to adopt the pharisaic prayer — 

"The mercjr I to othera show 
That mercy »how to me," 

we may well pray to inherit the blessing pro- 
nounced upon the merciful, to whom it is 
promised that they shall obtain mercy. 

But again, as to the knowledge of God. 
Here also hath the Lord a controversy. He 
complains that man's spiritual sense is dark- 
ened, so that he cannot behold his Maker. 
It is here that man's natural conscience iails 
to go along with ihe prophet. There is no 
one that does not in some way respond to 
the charge concerning truth and mercy ; there 
is no one who does not complain, and con- 
sider his complaint just, when his. neighbour 
acts towards him' with falsehood and wrong 
dealing ; but it requires something more than 
a development of the natural conscience to 
plead giulty to the charge of ignorance of 
God; and in this respect the very message 
of the prophet is a witness to its Divine 
authority, for it is only on the ground of 
God's having made Himself known that man 
can be open to condemnation for not knowing 
Him. He had made Himself known to Israel; 
but, for all this, there was no knowledge of 
God in the land. In like manner He hath 
made Himself known to us. He hath made 
Himself known to as in his dealings with our 



fathers, in the record of our national history, 
in the proud position to which He hath raised 
our nation, in the marvellous and unexampled 
national prosperity with which He hath blessed 
us, so that we are notoriously — in our wealth, 
in our strength, in our unity, in our stabiUty, 
and in our freedom — the very envy of the 
nations. Truly, my friends, you will not dis- 
pute this, for assuredly it does not admit of 
dispute. It is not the opinion of self-com- 
placency, the verdict of a biassed judge, but 
the confession that friend and foe alike must 
make. He hath dealt with us in a way that 
Israel of old was not dealt with ; the only' 
question is, do we acknowledge it to be his 
dealing, do we recognise therein any indica- 
tion of personal regard towards us as a nation, 
any valid claim to personal return from us as 
a people, the return of individual acknow- 
ledgment, and individual gratitude? If not. 
He may well have a controversy with us that 
there is no knowledge of God in the land. 
To foe sure, in Christian England, the true 
servants of God are to be counted by tens of 
thousands and by hundreds of thousands. To- 
conceal that fact would be to manifest the 
spirit of ingratitude, which we omdemn, for 
every true servant of God is God's spiritual 
handiwork to be thankfully acknowledged as 
a token from Him. But He hath made Him- 
self known to us in giving us the knowledge 
of Himself, in allowing his word to have free 
course and be glorified among us, in consti- 
tuting England a bulwark of religious liberty 
against the tyranny and the oppression of 
Rome. Does it seem to any of you, my 
friends, that such words are ill-timed and out 
of place ? I, for one, am confident that they 
can never be out of place so long as that 
mysterious system of spiritual tyranny over 
the souls of men has any existence in the 
Church of Christ ; nay, so long as the organ- 
ised existence of '^le Church itself is pre- 
sented to man's imagination as a substitute 
for a living and invisible Christ, to be appre- 
hended alone by spiritual faith, or as being in 
any way identical with Him ; and that least 
of all can they be out of place when the 
popular teaching and the popular taste is be- 
coming, in a great degree, indoctrinated and 
imbued with the elemental principles of this 
mighty sy^em, and when, the popular con- 
science is exhibiting, as it undoubtedly is, 
many symptoms of insensibility or indifierence 
to its unaltered and unalterable character. 

STANLEY LBATHES. 



u i tjii i ^otjuv Google 



OCTOBER. 



OCTOBER. 



41 



n. 



OFT they say thy garb is sober ; 
But I love thee, ripe October ! 
Some there be thy looks regret, 
And long for rose and violet — 
While thou hast o'er the woodlands shed 
Thy " glory-leaves " of gold and red, 
And touched the pathways with a light 
That mocks the hues of spring-time bright — 
Wrapt all the world in livery gay, 
To reconcile us to decay. 



How kind thou art to meet us so. 
With pomp and grace where'er we go : 
The leaves that rustle as we pass 
Along the softly-yellowing grass, — 
The shimmering maze of mist that lies 
Upon the hills, like brooding skies, 
And, creeping, melts, at last to make 
A shield 'gainst which the sun may shake 
Such shafts as Summer never knew, 
That break amid the breezy blue. 




m. 

Thou clothest the bare fields with grain, 
Whence nimble Fancy reaps again 
Her harvests of full ripened hope. 
And, pointing far beyond the scope 
Of earth, and her most fruitful yield, 
Holds up to view another field 
Wherein the fiuits and flowers that grow. 
Nor waste nor sad decay can know. 

E. COMDER GRAY. 



Digitized by 



Goc 



42 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



LITTLE 

I. 

LYING in- tlie sheltering curve of the 
hill, shadowed by a green mist of early 
foliage, ths little wayside village looked a 
tempting resting-place to weary pedestrians, 
like ourselves, who were tired of plodding over 
white dusty roads bordered with the nevei^ 
ending poplars ; and shadeless through the hot 
midday hours. On newer view, there was not 
much that was tempting about it, save the 
cool ripple of the little spring, that, gushing 
from the rocky hillside, babbled and gurgled 
down the stony street, and the soft glow of 
the blossoming orchards in which the few 
scattered houses were set. These were mere 
peasants* dwellings, dreary and blank-tookiag, 
with unglazed windows, and wooden shutters 
creaking to and fio on their hinges. There 
was a deserted tafSj widi great black ktsers 
straggling acR»s its de&ced ^asttr froot ; a 
little whitewa^Md church ; tfie coKfiery, mth 
its gilt cFOMes and &ded wieaths; and an 
old stone fam-lK)Ufle, oa whose ^ey tower 
the pigeons were plucningp Aeir ^te feathers 
in the suik 

There was bo- hope of procaring rest and 
shelter here, for the great oak hovse-door 
wa^ hst ^xatji and, beside the pigeons, some 
hens pcckating in the sonny cour^sod, went 
the ovAy sign* of life vfeible; Further down 
the rMkd therewas tt Xtim Uttle villa, bat alas ! 
a netfer glaace shoired Che green }^oii8ies to 
be carefully dosed, and evidently its iMmtees 
were eiAer asleep or absent. My friend, 
however^ irttv was conpletely exhaasted with 
fatigue and heat, had her hand on the gate, 
and would have attenqtted to obtain a<knis- 
sion had I not caug^ sight, through the 
%vindow of the oppose cottage, of a head 
noddiag to and £to to the monotonous move- 
ment Of roddng a dald to sleep, " May we 
come in ? " I asked, presentiiw m^^elf at the 
window. " "We are very tired with the sun, 
and should be glad if you could give us shelter 
in your cool room." 

The woman rose and opened the door, 
and, without answering us, beckoned us 
to enter and be seated, while she silently 
resumed her occupation. So bowed and 
feeble did she look, so worn and seamed 
^th wrinkles, that we guessed her at once 
to be the grandmother of the little one 
asleep in the cradle. The cool kitchen 
was delightful to us after the glare outside, 
but dreary and forlorn-looking, like all the 



JEANNE. 

peasants' rooms we had yet entered. There 
was a blackened table in the middle of the 
earthen floor, long settles on either side of it, 
while the antique wooden cradle was pu^ed 
into a comer beside the wide grey hearth, 
where a half-charred log of wood was still 
smouldering. Oa the walls there wtfre two 
or three brightly-coloured woodcuts, some 
strings of apples and bunches of maize. The 
sunlight resting on the woman's bowed head, 
and slanting on the patchwork quilt and 
wooden rockers, made the onlygleam of light 
in the dusky gloom of the interior ; and, tired 
as I was, I found, after a few minutes, the 
silence growing almost irksome, the contrast 
becoming painfiil with the bright spring glitter 
of the world outside. The nvman's attitude 
was one of Ustless dejectio* : our presence 
seemed to make nc diffoeace to her, till at 
last 1 broke the Alene* bf veabiring a remark 
concerning the baby, aad rose from my seat 
to take a nearer view. As I approached, the 
woman hastify drew up the coverlet, and, as 
I spoke, looked up with a carious ex^H-ession, 
hatf decant, half pitsrous, on her withered 
fiu:e. 

" She i« ivsarly seven mosdis old," she said, 
in reply to my question concerning the child's 
age ; " but you itoistake', madame, when you 
call her my * gcandchiki* I am hat mo^er, 
and she is^ my only dnM." 

Evidently I had mode m awkward nliMake, 
and I hastened 0» cover my confusion by 
remarking' on the one great beauty of tlie 
sallow, pinched Hole five on the piUow. 

What lovely cfes rile has t" I said, watching 
their bright re^sness ; " they are wonder- 
fulljr large and expressive for so young a 
baby. They look almost too bright Is she 
ill, or suffering in any way ?" 

"Are you wise with children?" said the 
mother eagerly. "Can you make cuves? 
Already I have taken her Co Lourdes, to a 
person who has the gift, but she can do 
nothing for her." 

"What is the matter?" I asked.'instantly 
reviewing in my mind all the infantile dis- 
orders and their remedies with wliich I was 
acquainted. " If I know of anything to do 
her good, I will gladly tell you. But why do 
you not let the regular doctor see her ? " 

Her face, which had brightened for a 
moment, clouded again. " It is of no use," 
she said sadly. " He has seen her many 
times, and can do nothing.. I thouglit, per- 
i haps, in your coBifl^S*^^ AiglW'Mf^ W a 



LITTLE JKANNE. 



43 



cure. I^ok 1 " and poshing the quilt away 
from the baby's ned:, ^e shonred its sad 
disfigurement — a latge protuberance, irtifch 
she had before tried to conceal, aitd for which 
I loo surely knew there coold be no complete 
cure. 

" Poor little thing," I said, '* it would hurt 
her very much to try and take it away ; per- 
haps it will grow less as she gets older." 

" Then you know nothing," said the woman, 
taking little heed of my poor attempt at com- 
fort. " 1 have always wished to speak to a 
stranger that I might ask them, and now it 
is of no use and seating herself, she re- 
commenced her monotonous rocking. 

" ^e suffers no pain," I said ; ** it is only 
the disfigurementi she locks so good and 
quiet. God has given her mc^e p^nce 
than we have to b»r her misfortune." 

But she did not answer me again, and 
seemed to consider the conversation at an 
■end, and after awhile I began to fisel some- 
what like an mtruder, and proposed to my 
liriend that we should continue our journey. 

" I can offer no refreshment," said the 
woman as we rose to leave, ** but if you go 
to the white house yonder, Madame Gabaud 
has both milk and wine." 

" I am not half rested," said my friend ; 
** do let us see if Madame Cabaud is really 
at hom^ for I cannot walk on till the sun is 
less powerful. Why could yon not stay 
longer in the Cottage? It was delightfully 
dim and quiet in there." 

" Did you not think it was very painful ?" 
I asked with a shudder. <* Tl&at poor woman 
looked so hopelessly wretched. But still we 
can go back if this Madame Gabaud is not 
at home." 

The gate of the garden where we had 
stopped before jwoved, however, to be un- 
locked. This seemed promising, and in fact 
we had hardly time to lift the bright knocker 
before a stout, comely-looking woman in a 
neatly quilled cap (a distinction amongst the 
gay fmtards of the district) came up the 
garden path and greeted us heartily. 

" Enter, ladies," she said. " You are wel* 
come. Madame Gabaud is out She luis 
gone to Lourdes with her brother, but I am 
her bonm^ and invite you to enter. You are 
fatigued ! What weather I 1 saw you pass 
but a quarter of an hour since. For the 
moment I thought you would stop here, but 
you probably imagined no one to be at home. 
I hastened down, but you had entered the 
cottage, and although I would have prevented 
you if possible, I was too late. How I re- 
gret the absence of Madame ! She will never 



foi^ve me if you do not repose yourselves 
now and accept some refreshment. I go— — ** 

"Stay," I said, stopping her; "we only 
af^ an hour's shdter. Unfortunately, we 
have not the pleasure of knowing your mis- 
tress, but the woman in the cottage dinected 
us here; and thought perhaps she might sell 
us some milk." 

" Certainly," she answered, smiling in the 
most reassuring way, " there is milk which I 
go to fetch immediately." 

I looked round the room when she had 
quitted it, and gave a deep- sigh of relief, for 
we had' not yet grown accostomed to the 
dirt and squalor of the cottages and farm- 
houses we had visited on our way, and it was 
pleasant enough to find ourselves in this snug 
little maison bourgeoise," where, fhjm the 
crisp fdds of the muslin curtains to tiie 
waxen polish on the floors, all was spotlessly 
clean and bright. Fanchette did not give me 
much time, however, for she re-entered almost 
immediately, bringing not only milk, but wine, 
honey, preserves, and fresh maize bread. 

" What a misfortune that my mistress is 
absent ! " she repeated j " it is not once in a 
month that any one comes into this village. 
Madame has a charming little apartment to 
let, but ^1 the year it is unoccupied, except 
in the summer, when some oae from Lourdes, 
perhaps, or even Bagu^res, comes to drink of 
the spring in the village. How delightfiil - if 
only we would make up onr minds to re- 
m^n ! Why not ? But we were on our way 
to Luz perhaps, where the snow had hardly 
commenced to melt. How long did we in- 
tend to stay there ? " And then folk>wed the 
usual string of questions, our voluble enter- 
tainer never staying fortunately to listen for 
oar replies, and only pausing in her flow of 
talk to insbt on our partaking of the good 
things she set before us. She gave us not 
only her own, but her mistress's history, and 
caulogued the whde population of the village 
with the one exception of the woman oppo- 
site. My curiosity at last tempted mc to 
inquire a)ttceming this neighbour, but an 
ominous expressitm of vexation, the first firown 
we had seen on her good-humoured face, 
warned me that I was upon dangerous ground. 

'* She is a stranger to this village," she re- 
plied, turning away, " and has only been here 
a short time. I know very little about her." 
Then leading the way into the garden, she 
showed us all its leafy nooks and comers, its 
trim beds of vegetables and flowers, insisted 
on filling our hands with fragrant blossoms, 
our travelling-bags with rosy apples, and 
brown nuts, and driedQ^ft^ by^fe, genUy 



44 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



reminded her that it was her mistress's pro- 
perty she was dispendi^ and endeavoured 
to leave a satisfactory remuneration in her 
hands, but she could not be induced to accept 
anything, declaring that if she did so she 
should lose her situation, and that she had 
only performed the duties for which she was 
engaged by Madame and Madame's brother, 
Mons. le Cui;^, and that if only we would 
return we should find how delighted Madame 
would be to hear of our visit 

" Return !" said my friend, as we stood in 
the little gateway. " We have only a week 
left to stay amongst the mountains, and who 
luiows when we may come back again ? * 

II. 

Do we ever acknowledge to ourselves how 
many of our wishes are granted in the end, 
and how when they h^ve passed away dead 
and forgotten their ghosts return to us in 
sudden fulfilment ? 

I remember how reluctantly I said good-bye 
to the lovely little village lying asleep in the 
afternoon sunshine — to Fanchette, smiling a 
kind good-bye at the gate ; and with what 
a sigh of resignation I refbsed to listen to my 
&iend's consoling suggestion that some day 
or other, when we needed rest and seclusion, 
we might really come and occupy Madame's 
apartment. 

" Don't talk about coming again," I said. 
" It is always these quiet little havens that 
escape us ; we catch sight of them for a 
moment, but when we need to hide ourselves 
away in them they become suddenly inacces- 
sible, and for some unconquerable reason we 
are obliged to go to Brighton or Margate." 

My impatient wish had long been forgotten ; 
the little village was but a dim memory of 
one of those happy days. Years and time 
had separated my friend and myself, and 
I had come and gone, and come again to 
the beloved Pyrenean valley when circum- 
stanras, in their usual unexpected manner, 
brought the village and its inmates into 
sudden recollection. An attack of illness 
while visitmg some fiiends at Fau left me a 
weak and nervous invalid. The early sum- 
mer was warning every one to ■ leave for the 
cooler shelter of the mountains, but I shrunk 
from passing my irritable convalescence at 
any of the well-known watering-places. In 
vain my fiiends pressed upon me the benefit 
of mountain air at sunrise, the charms of pic- 
nics and dances, hill climbing and donkey 
riding; each ailment they used made the 
possibility more dreadful; and they agreed 
at length to release me if I could discover 



within an hour or two's distance of them any 
retreat possessmg the necessary qualifications 
of rest and seclusion. 

" Fca you are not in England," they said 
to me, "where yon can go down to any 
pleasant little village, and find comfort and 

cleanliness, neat apartments, and a good 
nurse waiting for you. Here, when you get 
outside a town, you get beyond the reach of 
civilisation, and we cannot very well install 
you in a'dirty cottage or low aubei^. Then 
it was that I remembered that bright little 
bouse with its visionary Madame Gabaud 
and its real Fanchette — its spotless cleanli- 
ness, and its promise of comfort and repose. 
Tea years had passed since that sunny' 
afternoon when we had visited it, but my 
fiiends were charmed with m^ description, 
and set forth next day to see if it was still in 
existence, and still offered its tiny "appar- 
tement k louer." Everything, they declared 
on their return, was just as I must have seen 
it. Fanchette was still there, voluble and 
entertaining, but Madame Gabaud was visible 
also, and proved to be a kind, motherly per- 
son — "the very one you would choose to 
t^e charge of an invalid." A few days suf- 
ficed to make my arrangements, and for once 
I gracefully admitted that my wish had 
kept its charm as I came in sight of the vil- 
If^e, half buried in its blossoming orchards, 
with the little white house looking just the 
same, while at its gate stood a group wait- 
ing to greet me. So few and rare were 
their visitors, that Fanchette remembered me 
perfectly, and Madame Gabaud and the good 
cur^ made me feel like an old friend with 
their kind welcome. A curly-haired little 
girl, who at the moment of my approach had 
retreated behind a large currant bush, was 
vigorously pulled out by Fanchette and intro- 
duced as " Aim^e," Madame's little daughter, 
and induced reluctantly to offer her smooth, 
round cheek for a caress. Her half-sly, half- 
merry glance brought back wiUi a sudden 
flash <rf recollection those scarcdy more 
beautifiil baby eyes that had so saddened me 
long ago, and instinctively I turned to look 
at the cottage opposite. To that, at least, 
there had come change — a noisy group of 
children was on the doorstep, the iralls were 
newly whitewashed, the windows were glazed. 
Fanchette, seeing my glance, said, with a 
little nod of satisfaction, — 

" Ah, I perceive 1 Madame remembers 
everything ; she had the misfortune to enter 
the cretin's cottage. I would not then let 
you know where you had been lest I should, 
cause you fear." Digitized by Kj< > 



LITTLE JEANNE. 



45 



"Why were you afraid?" I asked as we 
entered the house. " Had there been fever 
or anytiung of that kind there ?" 

" Ah, madame does not understand)** she 
replied, lowering her voice ; " it was a cretin 
that lived there, one of the accursed race. 
No one ever went Uiere, or approadied her 
or her child unless obliged. But she is dead 
now, and her husband, who was like ourselves, 
is married again ■ he has a good wife, even ; 
and everything goes well with him." 

"And the child?" I asked. "What has 
become of the poor little baby ? Does she 
still live ?" 

" Alas I yes," answered Fanchette ; her 
stepmother, the good Louise, has no small 
cross to bear. She does what she can for 
her, but the child is evil, and it is a misery 
for them aU." 

Aim^ had followed Fanchette into my 
room, and was listening intently, finger on 
lip, and her great eyes round with wonder, 

"What do you here?" cried Fanchette 
hastily. " Return to thy play, my little one. 
We must not speak of tiiese things before 
her," she said, as the little girl obediently left 
the room ; " we do all we can to keep her 
out of the cretin's sight, for she has an evil 
eye ; but I am constantly in terror, for our 
child has a tender heart and seeks everything 
<hat is despised by others. I must see now 
whether she has gone," and Fanchette busded 
out after her charge. 

Constantly, during my visits to the south, I 
had heard the dreaded name of cretin orcagot ; 
but I had imagined that the old superstitions 
concerning them were dying out, and that 
the few members still left of the outcast race 
were allowed to mix unmolested amongst 
the peasantry. Very vividly the picture of 
the poor woman bo^ed over her sick child 
came back to me, and Fanchette's stoiy ex- 
plained its hopeless wretchedness. 

After this, I used to watch from my window 
for a glimpse of the cretin child, but for some- 
time I did not see her ; and Fanchette in- 
formed me that for days together she would 
hide herself in the rocks, no one taking heed 
oi^ her coming or going. In the meantime, 
Aim^ and I became great friends, and the 
little girl aqd her constant companion, a 
closely shaven and very ugly little dog of the 
poodle species, beguiled many tedious hours. 
And, in spite of the united efforts of her 
uncle, her mother, and her nurse, I think 
Aim^e was the dearest and sweetest little 
maiden it was ever my good fortune to meet. 
One iault she had, if fault it could be called, 
and that was an excessive and ill-regulated 



affection for anything she imagined to be 
despised or neglected by any one else. She 
had been seen to throw her arms round a 
refractory pig, and on one occasion was found 
comfortably cuddled down beside a vicious 
horse, that even its groom was afraid to ap- 
proach. The house and garden were full of 
her pensioners ; and when I found my sofa 
occupied by a family of bereaved guinea- 
pigs, a sick kitten installed in my cosiest 
arm-chair, and my paper basket monopolized 
by a colony of snaQs rescued from the salt- 
pot at the last moment, I was obliged to 
remonstrate, and so forcibly,, that poor little 
Aim^'s eyes filled with tears, and she carried 
off her whole tribe, and left me alone for the 
day, while she spent her time in consoling 
them. 

To do her justice, I found the time long 
without her, and I was meditating a com- 
promise with regard to the kitten, when an 
unusual noise in the quiet street drew my 
attention to the window. There, gathered 
together into a turbulent little crowd, were, 
or seemed to be, all the children of the vil- 
lage, following with loud cries one of their 
number, who, some yards in advance, was 
placing every instant a greater distance be- 
tween herself and her pursuers. When she 
came to the comer, she turned and faced 
them, and in that moment I recognised by 
her unsightly and prominent disfigurement 
the poor little cretin baby I had seen ten 
years ago. Sadly as she had impressed me 
then, the picture she presented now was in- 
finitely more pitiable. She was clothed in 
the merest rags ; her handkerchief half torn 
from her head, and her long coarse hair 
streaming from beneath it ; in her great 
luminous eyes there was the courage and 
terror of some hunted animal, and, shaking 
her small brown fist at the frantic little mob, 
she hissed out some unintelligible threats, in 
a voice half choked by fear and rage. 

Fanchette, who came out of the kitchen to 
see what was the matter, shook her head 
over the disturbance. "Thty will not catch 
her now," she said; "she has reached the 
rocks, and no one can find the holes in which 
she hides: they are stupid, these foolish 
children, to "provoke her ; she will be re- 
venged, and they will suffer." 

" And is there no one to protect the poor 
child herself?" I asked indignantly. "No 
one who will shelter or take care of her?" 

" Why, Madame, she is a cretin," said Fan- 
chette, lifting her eyebrows, of course we 
must suffer her, since it is the will of the 
good God; but He does not mean that we^ 



46 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



shoukl cherish her any more thui we do the 
vemiin with which He has afflicted us, and, 
as for myself," she added with a shudder, 
" I cannot imagine why cretins should exist 
at all, ox rats or toads either." 

That night the air was hot and stifling; 
a thundentonn brooded. I could not sleep j 
and wakeftil and restless I got up; and, 
going to my window, I looked out. The 
night was dark and cloudy; but now and 
again fitful gleams o( moonlight whitened the 
curb's garden and the tom\» and crosses of 
the cemetery beyond. As my eyes grew 
accustomed to the gloom, I &oded I could 
see some one moving amongst the graves ; 
and I thought perhaps our refractory goat 
had broken its chain, and, in that case, I 
would give warning ere damage was done to 
the careful decorations of the dead. I opened 
my window, and thai, mingled witli the 
sharp note of the buU^rog, the rustle of the 
leaves, and the distant song of a solitary 
DtghtiDgale, came a low sound of sobbing, 
broken now and then by a stifled mow. All 
at once a little figure rose from a mound in 
the corner of the cemetery, and, as she picked 
her way bade amongst the graves, her foce 
was towards me^ and a gleam of moonlight 
showed me the features of poor Jeanne, the 
cretin. She passed quickly down the road, 
but whither she went X know not, probably 
to her old haunt, where she might share the 
shelter of wild creatures that, finding as little 
mercy as herself at the hands of man, grew 
friendly and tame with the little outcast. 
In the morning, I found her mother was 
buried in the cemetery, though no cross or 
stone marked her grave, nor was there even 
a turf to cover the unsightly heap Of stones 
and earth. More than ever now I cherished 
the hope of speaking with the poor child, 
who, wild and outcast, taught only the bitter 
lesson of the world's cruelty, could yet keep 
so loving a memory of her lost mother. 
Eagerly I watched for her appearance, but 
she was too wild and shy to let any one ap- 
proach her. Once in a wood, I came unex- 
pectedly upon her ; but, before I could 
speak, she had fled down the tree-entangled 
path and was out of sight ; and once, when 
Aim6e and I were in the cemetery, we be- 
came aware of he^ presence, and then, with 
Aim^e's help, I made the first attempt to win 
her attention. Every year Aim^e placed 
fresh wreaths on her father's grave, and this 
evening we bad brought the basket of wild 
flowers we had gathered in the woods to 
anange them. I picked out of the heap 
some wild white ulies, and, making them 



into a cross, I whispered to .Aimt.'e to take 
it over and place it on the cretin's grave. 
I was in some doubt about the result 
of my experiment, and thought Jeanne 
would perhaps rush from her hiding-^iace, 
and toss it away or crush it underfoot, 
but she remained perfectly still and did 
not move until we had left the churchyard. 
Next day the cross was still there, and I saw 
a gleam of satisfaction in Aim^e's eyes that, 
although forbidden to speak, to her, she had 
yet b^en allowed to show that small act 
of idndness. But for weeks we did not see 
Jeanne again ; she seemed to have quite dis- 
appeared i she must have fed with the birds 
ami the rabbits, for not once in all that time 
did she come near the village. In the early 
autumn, and before tlie snow had fallen, 
Aim^e and I made our first attempt at 
mountain climbing. It was onjjra very insig- 
nificaut ascent, but I think, had it not been 
for the presence of Aim^'s little dog Lulu, it 
would have been a bnlliant success* But it 
is not easy to chronicle the miseries caused 
by that unfortunate dog. At intervals he 
refused to move a paw further, requiring us 
to carry him in the steepest part, and 
whenever he came to a narrow and srane- 
what perilous part he utterod a succes- 
sion ol short, sharp barbs that bewildered 
us, and really gave a sensation of danger to 
our progress. He thus attracted the atten- 
tion of a fierce sheep-dog, who at one part 
menacingly barred our path, and obliged us 
to make a long and fatiguing round. But 
his final achievement was to frighten poor 
little Aim^ half oat of her wits, and nearly 
to cause a more serious disaster. He had 
come to a part that was sufficiently wide for 
two, and had Lulu contented himself with 
running on in front or behind we could have 
walked quite at our ease ; but as he insisted 
on' running first to one side and then iht 
other, or squeezing with a piteous little 
whine between the 'two, he was in constant 
danger of falling over and being dashed to 
pieces on the sheer descent 

" We had better separate, Aim^e," I said at 
length, " or Lulu will surely be killed, and — " 
I had not gone on many paces when a shriek 
from Aim^, and a howl from that imlucky 
dog told me some misfortune had happened 
at last. Lulu had fallen, but a projecting 
rock had arrested h^ fall, and he now half 
lay, half dung to it — fi pitiable little object 
of fear. He was safe enough for the moment, 
but the question was how to rescue him. 
Aimde would have slid down after him, 1 
believe, had I not held her back; bu 

Digitized by 



II, * 

Cjpogl 



OUR SWISS GUIDE. 



47 



seemed as if we must leave him there, while 
we went to the nearest cabane, some distance 
off, to ask for assistance. We were discuss- 
ing which should go, when, coming towards 
us, not on the path, but bounding, leaping, 
jumping from rock to rock like a chamois, 
we saw the figure of Jeanne. 

'* Let us ask her to go," I said, " she will 
be BO much quicker but before I could 
speak Jeanne's quick eyes had comprehended 
the situation, and, without a moment's hesi- 
tation, she had swung herself over the edge ; 
and holding by one hand to the sharp angle 
of the rock, she hauled up by his one lock of 
wool the miserable little animal. Before we 
oould thank ber, or even draw a breath of 
thankfiUness at he? escape from the horrible 
daogerof the attempt, she was gone — hidden 
ODce more amongst the rodcs. Very triumph- 
antly did I pn^aim tbe heroic deed on 



my return, and not altogether vainly did I 
endeavour vindicate poor Jeanne's nature 
in the eyes of Madame Gabaud wd the 
curd Not vainly, indeed, so far as good 
intentions are concerned ; for we laid together 
a little plan to surprise the shy, wild creature, 
and bring her by love and gentleness back to 
her rightful place in God's great family. But 
Qne more merciful than her human brother 
and sister took heed of little Jeanne. I had 
noticed in that brief vision of her on the 
rock bow thin she had grown, and how more 
than before she looked wild and lost. Not 
many days after our adventure, some one 
came to tell us that the cretin was lying 
asleep in the churchyard, and there mdeed 
we found poor Jeanne lying curled up on her 
mother's grave, peacefully sleeping in the 
tender amw of Deaih. 

CAIU>LINB NORTEC 



OUR SWISS GUIDE. 




OT the least 
interesting 
part of moun- 
taineering is the 
perpetual up- 
spiin^Dg of les- 
sons and illus- 
tnitions and 
analogies. Some- 
times an idea 
starts up which 
Jias, for one's self, 
all the delicious 
charm of a quite 
new thought, 
thdugh very 
likely it may 
have flashed upon 
the minds of 
scores of other 
travellers; some- 
times a very old and familiar one pre^ 
seats itself, and we have the pleasure 
of proving it, perhaps for the first time, by 
practical experience. In noting one little 
group of illustrations among many, those 
which cluster round the idea of a " Guide," 
we shall not be careful to steer clear of such 
old ideas, though we may hope to add some 
freshness to them. 

The application throughout will be so very 
obvious to any mind accustomed to take the 
least interest in analogies of spiritual life, 



that we prefer giving the points of illustra- 
tion only, leaving the reader to supply the 
"heavenly meaning" which shall underlie 
each sentence. 

Curiously enough, the name of our favourite 
Swiss guide, the one who inspired us with, 
most confidence, and to whom we should 
most Uke to entrust ourselves in any future 
tour, at once gave the kejTiote of thought — 
it was Joseph. While we mslinctively trusted 
I his sagacity and strength, it was additionally 
I pleasant to find that our brkht young guide 
I was a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, our 
I true Joseph. He had remarked that his great 
; physical strength and health was " the most 
splendid earthly gift," but on our mention of 
the most glorious gift of all, our Saviour 
Christ himself, He rejoined fervently, " Ah, 
one can never estimate the value of that 
gift !" 

But to proceed to our illustrations, 
j I. The first duty of a really first-rate, guide, 
, when arranging for a long snow or glacier 
excursion, is to see that we are properly pro- 
vided with everything needful He ascertains 
that you have snow-spectacles, without which 
, the glare of the snow is not simply incon- 
, venient, but injurious, and veils, mthout which 
you stand a fair chance of finding your face 
, completely flayed, if it should be a sunny 
day. He examines the spike of yoia alpen- 
\ stock and the nails of your boots, and in- 
quires after your wg^^, and often gives 



4& 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



curiously practical advice as to other points 
in your outfit He not only tells you what 
you must have as to provision, but, if the 
excursion involves a night in some mountain 
hut, he sends on the necessary fuel and food, 
and sometimes even bedding. In all these 
matters you do not need to trouble at all ; if 
you will only leave it altogether to him, he 
will think of everything, arrange everything, 
and provide everything ; and when the time 
comes you will find all in order, your shoes 
fresh nailed, your alpenstock new spiked, the 
porter sent on with provision, and the coil of 
strong rope and the ice-axe all ready for 
the difficult places which you do not yet 
know of. 

But many travellers do not even know that 
the guide is thus willing and comptetent ; 
they do not ask, or perhaps even decline his 
aid and advice. Instead of throwing it all 
upon his responsibility, they take adl the 
trouble themselves, and then generally find 
something gone wrong, or something over- 
looked. 

2. Before you start the guide has disposed 
of all those heavier matters whif:h you could 
not possibly carry for yourself. Very often 
they are taken completely out of your sight. 
Encumbered with these, you could not even 
set out on your journey, much less progress 
quickly and pleasantly. 

But there aie always plenty of little aflairs 
which seem mere nothings at first, bpt which 
are soon found to be real burdens. The 
guide is perfectly willing to relieve you of all 
tiiese. They are no weight to him ; he quite 
smiles at the idea of its being any trouble to 
him to carry them, but they make a serious 
difference to you. He offers to take them at 
first, and if you decline, though he may not 
perhaps offer again, he will cheerfully take 
them, when, later on, you feel their weight 
and hand them one by one to him, till the 
very last is given up, and you walk lightly 
and freely. A beginner says she " would 
rather cany her little knapsack, it is really no 
weight at aXi !" and thinks a parcel or two in 
her pocket " can't make any difference," and 
prefers wearing her waterproof, because " it 
isn't at all heavy." But she has not gone far 
before she is very glad, if a sensible girl, to 
give up her knapsack, tiny though it be ; and 
then she finds that a waterproof won't do for 
climbing, and she hands that over; and pre- 
sently she even empties her pocket, and the 
guide trudges away with it all. Then she is 
surprised to find what a difference it does 
make, and understands why her friend, who 
knew the guide's ways better and gave up 



every single thing to him at first, is getting 
along so cool and fresh and elastically. But 
mark that the weight of a burden is seldom 
realised till we really are going uphill and in 
a fair way to make progress. Indeed, this 
very sensitiveness to weight is a quick test of 
increased gradient. We think nothing about 
it as long as we are walking on a level or 
slightly downhill ; but as soon as we begin 
the real ascent the pull of the little burdens 
is felt at once, and the assistance, which 
before we did not crave, becomes very wel- 
come. It is then that we feel we musi " lay 
aside erwry weight." 

3. One may almost certainly distinguish 
between a tyro and an old hand by watdiing 
for a few minutes the style of march. A 
novice will walk at an irregular pace accord- 
ing to the irregularities of Uie ground, making 
little "spurts" when she comes to an easy 
bit, and either putting on steam or lagging 
behind for extra steep ones; stopping to 
gather flowers and poke at curious boulders ; 
taking long or short steps according to cir- 
cumstances, and never thinking of such a 
thing as noticing, much less imitating, the 
steady rhythm of the guide's walk. Pro- 
bably she expresses her astonishment at his 
unexpectedly slow pace, and would prefer 
getting on a little faster; very likely she 
dashes ahead or aside, and presently has to 
be recalled to the track, which is not so easy 
to keep as she supposed. 

One with more experience is quite content 
to take the 'guide's pace, knowing certainly 
that it pays in the long-run, and saves an 
enormous amount of fatigue, and therefore of 
time also. Very short steps, slowly, silently, 
and steadily placed, but as regular as martial 
music, never varying in beat, never broken 
by alternation of strides and pauses — this is 
the guide's example for uphill work, and yet 
it is what one never believes in till one has 
learnt by experience that one gets through 
twice as much by it. 

4. It is wondoful what a saving of fatigue 
it is if from the very beginning one obeys the 
guide implicitly and follows him exactly. 
You spy such a handy " short cut," you can 
see so precisely where you can join me path 
again, it will save you such a provoking long 
round, you can't think why the guide does not 
choose it I So away you go, exulting in your 
cleverness, straight uphill, instead of that 
tiresome zigzag. 

But it is rather steeper than you thought, 
and you get just a little out of breath; and 
you find an awkward little perpendicular rkJc 
right in the way, and you musfi|;|^^fi;^fl94Jt,j(| 



on I 



OUR SWISS GUIDE. 



4! 



and then you get into rhododendron bushes 
which are thicker than you thought, and you 
get very wet ; and then you see your com- 
panions reaching the point you are making 
for, and you Ecramble and hurry. And by 
the time you have done with your short cut, 
you find you have not only gained no time, 
but that the few minutes away from the guide 
have heated you and taken more out of you 
than an hour's steady following. Later in 
the day you recollect your short cuts of the 
morning, and wish you had economised your 
breath. 

5. The full value of exact following is not 
learnt in the valleys or pastures. It is on 
the " high places " and on the unsullied snow- 
fields that one 
discovers this. 

It is when 
we are high 
away above the 
green slopes, 
seeing no track 
but our guide's 
own footsteps, 
that we learo 
its safety. He 
set his foot on 
that stone — 
there you must 
set yours, for 
the next is 
loose and 
would betray 
you ; he plant- 
ed his alpen- 
stock on that 
inch of rock — 
there you must 
plant yours, for 
an inch either 
way would give 
DO firm hold ; 

he climbed by that jut of rock — so must you, 
for the other would be too hard a step ; he 
sprang but halfway over that torrent, and you 
must do the same at cost of wetting your 
feet, for he knew that the slab of rock which 
you could have reached at one bound was 
treacherously slippery and dangerous. 

It is here also that we get into the way of 
instant and unquestioning compliance with 
every word our guide utters. I was struck 
with the remark of a Swiss Alpine Clubbist 
in a description of his ascent of the 
Todi. His guide suddenly shouted to him, 
" Turn sharp to the right ! " He saw no rea- 
son whatever for this, but obeyed instantly. The 
next moment an immense block of stone fell 

IV. N.S. 




upon the spot where he would have been had 
he hesitated an instant or even looked round 
to satisfy himself. The quick and practised 
eye of the guide saw the trembling of the 
loosened mass which the traveller could nol 
see. A query would have been fatal. He 
added, " In these high places one learns to 
obey one's guide without stopping to ask 
'Why?'" 

But when the snow-slopes, so cool and 
pure and beautiful, are reached, another phase 
of following is learnt. There is not the ex- 
citement and effort of the rock-climbing, and 
at first it seems very quiet and easy work, 
with a special exhilaration of its own, making 
one feel as if one had started quite fresh, all 

the rest of the 
journey count- 
ing for nothing. 
Once we set 
out on such a 
slope, tracking 
after our guide 
in a geneml 
sort of way, 
rather interest- 
ed in making 
our own foot- 
prints, and 
hardly distin- 
guishing his 
irom those of 
our com- 
panions. II 
we turned to 
look back, it 
was surprising 
what a number 
of unconscious 
little curves our 
feet had made. 
But the snow 
was rather soft, 
and we soon found it much harder work than 
we expected. One of us was walking, as she 
always did, close behind the guide, because 
she was not quite so strong as the rest, and 
was therefore under his especial care. Sud- 
denly she called out, " Oh, do set your feet 
exactly in the guide's footsteps, you can't 
think how much easier it is !" So we tried 
it, and certainly should not have believed 
what a difference it would make. All the diffi- 
culty and effort seemed gone; the fatiguing 
sinking and laborious lifting of our feet was 
needless ; we set them now exactly where 
the guide's great foot had trodden, keeping 
his order of right and left, and all was easy, a 
hundred steps less tc,U ^U^, ti^t^^^j^ 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



But to hav€ theflil! benefit of this one needed 
to keep also very near to the guide, for the 
last comers trod rather in their companions' 
footmarfM, and were often misled by some 
false or uncertain treading of these, which 
marred the perfectness of the original steps. 

6, Thorough knowledge of the guide's 
langn:!ge adds both to the enjoyment and 
safety of our following. He has much to 
tell us by the way, and is always reauly to 
answer questions ar.d give information. One 
vho does not easily understand loses a great 
deal A companion may be very willing to 
translate, but may do so incorrectly, and in 
any case the freshness and point of many a 
remaric is lost ; while it often happens that the 
usual interpreter of a party is not near enough 
for appeal, or too tired to keep up the inter- 
change. In sudden emerfpndes, too, it may 
be really important that each shoiild person- 
ally understand, and thus be able iiuAaiitly to 
obey the guide's directions. 

Moreover, it is very desirable not only Avs 
to " know his voice," but to be able to speak 
to him for one's self. Once one of us slipped 
in a rather awkward place. She called out, 
" Stop a moment !" but the guide in advance 
knew no English, and therefore did not heed 
her, and but for the quick call in German of 
another who saw the sl^, she might have 
been frightened and hurt. 

7. When we come to really difficult places, 
or glaciers with hidden crevasses, we find the 
use of the coil of rope, tins is fintened 
first round the gtade hims^ uid then romd 
the rest of the party^, aSamag a leogth o£ 
eight or ten feet between eibdi. Onoe I 
questioned tiie strengdi of rope, upon 
whit^ the guide nntwisled it a little, and 
showed me a scariet tliread hidden anong 
the strands. He t<^ me diat this was the 
mark that it was a real Alpine-Club rope, 
manufectnred expressly for the purpose, and 
to be depended upon in a matter of life and 
death. It is remMkable that this typical 
"line of scarlet thread" should have been 
selected as tiie guarantee of safety. 

Once roped thus, you have a sense of 
security in passing what would otherwise be 
very dangerous piaces, especially concealed 
crevasses. And not only a sense, but a 
reality of security. You feel the snow yield 
beneath your feet, you in, and you have 
neither hand nor foothold ; you get perhaps 
a glimpse of a fathomless blue depth below 
you. If you struggle you only break away 
the snow, and enlarge the cavity. Bot you 
are in no real da^er, and if you have confi- 
dence in your gmde and the rope, you wait 



quietly, perhaps even smilingly, till yon are 
hauled out of the hole, and landed on firm 
snow again. Why ? Because you are firmly 
knotted to your guide, and jUbo to all the rest 
of your par^. You had not even time to call 
out ere he felt the sudden strain upon the 
rope, and instantly turned to help you, dntw^ 
ing you easily up to his side without hmt. 
Your friends felt the shock too, bat they 
could not do mudi to hdp, only they watched 
and admired the gtride, and found their own 
fears (if they had any) lessened, and dieir 
con6dence in him and his rope greatly in- 
creased. 

But it is the guide hinrself who bears the 
brunt of these difficulties. He goes first, 
carefully sounding the snow, avoiding many 
a crevasse which we should never have sus- 
pected, and sometimes gettir^ a fall which 
would have been ours but for bis trying the 
way for us. If we really follow his steps^ 
exacdy and patiently, the probability is that 
we never go in at all, for die saow tiiat haa 
borne his weight never gives w^ under oars. 
But if we swerve even a few inches from hia 
footmarks, we may soon find oureelves in tiie 
predicament described above. 

8. ScMKtimeswe come to a slope of firozen 
snow so steep that it looks absolutely impwB- 
sible to climb it And so it would be, but 
for our guide. Our impossibilities only 
develop his resources. Now he unshoulders 
his ice-axe, and with wonderful rapidity cots 
steps by which we ascend even more casAy 
than latberto. And we notice that these 
extxa-d^Kuit slopes are a positive adjutage 
to us, because while he has all the hard tratk, 
we Iwve to talce 1u%ath. When the 
steep bit is passed, we have gained greatly in 
hcght, and yet we feel quite fi-e^ened for 
further ascent instead of fatigued. 

9. The guide decides your rest as well as 
your progress, if you are wise enough to let 
him. He very soon measures your powers, 
and not only knows precisely when a cre- 
vasse is just too wide for you to leap widuxit 
help, or a rock just too awkward for you to 
climb, but he also seems to knowprecise^rwhen 
you had better mske longer or shorter halts. 
Sometimes yon are nnwitimg to rest when 
he proposes it, and perhaps he lets yon have 
your own way and go on, and then yon are 
quite certain to be sorry for it. But more 
often he insists, iud then you alwa3rs find he 
was right, and that he had timed the haJc 
better than you would have done. Then, 
wiAout waiting to be asked, he unfastens 
yom wraps, contrives a seat upon the snow, 
:md folds a shawl ronnd you. It isj^ ^se^ 



"AT EVENTIDE IT SHALL BE LIGHT." 



saying you do not feel cold, he is responsible 
for you, and knows what is safe, and mil not 
let you risk getting chilled by the subtle glacier 
wind. Then he gives you the provision he 
has carried for you, meat, and bread, and 
wine, and leaves no little stone unturned to- 
wards making your halt as refreshing and 
pleasant as possible. There is no need for 
you to be calculating time, and fidgeting 
about going on ; he knows how much is yet 
before you, and he will tell you when it is 
time to be moving again. 

10. I mentioned that the weakest of our 
party was specially cared for. Sometimes 
while the others had merely general orders, 
she bad his strong arm, and thus escaped 
the slips wluch the more independent ones 
now and then made. Weakness or ailments 
proved his patience and care. On one occa- 
sion the " mountain sickness " which some- 
times befalls travellers on great heights sud- 
denly attacked one not accustomed to fail in 
strength, and then nothing could exceed 
Joseph's kindness and attention. He made 
a wonderfully comfortable couch on the snow, 
told us what was the matter, administered 
advice and wine, and waited patiently and 
sympathetically till his patient, completely 
prostrate for an hour, felt able to stand. 
Then in a firm decided tone he said, " Ich 
tibemehme die Knmke I" (/ undertake flie 
sick one !) and leaving t^e' other guides to 
attend to all else, his powerful um helped 
"die Kianke" down to a level where the 
less rarefied air soon set all to rights. 

11. It is imderstood that a true Swiss 
guide is literally " faithful imto death," that 
he does not hesitate to risk his own life for 
the sake of his charge, and that instances are 
known in which it has not (»ly berai riaked, 



but actually sacrificed. We have never been 
in a position to prove this, but the undoubted 
fact completes the illustration. Yet this 
completion only shows the imperfection. 
For that poor fmthfiil guide may perish with 
the traveller, and not instead of him ; the 
sacrifice may be all in vain where the power 
and the will are not commensurate. In such 
illustrations we may learn as much by the 
contrasts as by the similarities; and how 
often, as in this instance, does the very 
failure of an earthly type bring out the glory 
and perfection of the antitype. Our glorious 
Guide, who has called us to the journey, and 
whose provision for it is " without money and 
without price," cannot fidl in his undertaking. 
All who are in his covenant hands are " kept 
by the power of God thnsugh faith unto sal- 
vation," and " shall never perish." What He 
hath begun He will perform, for He "is able 
to keep you from falling, and to present you 
faultless before the presence of his glory with 
exceeding joy." He is not merely wilKng to 
lay down his life, but He hath laid it down 
for us, and now death cannot touch our 
Leader any more ; He hath " the po\ver of 
an endless life," and we are united to that 
life by the strong cords of his eternal purpose 
and his everlasting love, which no firiction 
can weaken, and no stroke can sever. How- 
ever tremendous the gulf beneadi us, if thus 
united to Him, He will lead us on till our 
feet, no longer weary, stand ^ above the 
cloads upon the mountain of oot God, never 
to repass the toils and-dangere of the ascent, 
never to return to the valley, never to part 
from the strong and loving Guide who has 
led us to such a Hitherto of rest and 
wonder, and to such a Henceforth of joy and 
praise. Frances ridlbv havergau 



"AT EVENTIDE IT SHALL BE LIGHT." 

By the author op "Chronicles of the ScHBrnJEao-CorrA Family." 



T7ORTH to thy work from mom tiB nigH 
Tlaotij^ fog and din tliy peUi wotdd 
be; 

Whilit I at boiae upon dw hei^ 

Would work, and rest, and wait for thee. 

But now along the way of life 

Through dust and din my path must be. 
Whilst thou, aJsove all mists and strife, 

Waitest at Home, on high, for me. 

I will not call them " weary ways ; " 
No murmur over left thy lips 1 



I mil not aifj^.o'er. "dreary di^" 
Tfasiig^ daduned. by- tl^ li^'s «cli(»& 

A Presence wraps me everywhere. 
The Presence in which thou art blest ; 

The Face, the Sun of Worlds, is tbere, 
y«t bright t» ufl liie gliftenhig wca. 

The work is good, the way is right- 
But yet, T think, an hour shall be 

At evening on the home-like bei|dM^ . 
Which will be morn3tgii^i5^(yP©OQle 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



ORPHANS AND IMBECILES. 



ABOUT the year 1 780, a young man of a 
goodly stock of Dorsetshire yeomen 
came up to London from that county to fol- 
low his trade of watchmaking, and attaching 
himself to the Independent Church on the 
Pavement at Moorfields, at once took his 
share in the visiting of the poor. He had gone 
one Sunday, at the pastor's request, to visit a 
dying man in a low court near Drury Lane, 
when he heard in an adjoining room a female 
voic? offering up prayer. He went in, and 
saw by the bedside a young woman, whom 
he soon found out was an orphan, by name 
Mary Anne Mullens. Her story was like a 
modem version of a certain old nursery tale, 
only that the might of Christian love in her 
had reversed the sequel. She had lost her 
mother in infancy, and her father while still 
young ; and she was robbed of what little 
worldly property was left to her and cast adrift. 
But she betook herself to teaching, and 
opening an adventure school in Little Britain, 
found that, in midst of the hard fight for 
bread, she could help others. She devoted 
herself to visiting the poor and the suffering ; 
and " became practically a sister of mercy 
among the afflicted of Mr. Winter's church, 
meeting in New Cour^ Carey Stree^ of which 
she was a member." 

These two, meeting in drcumstances so 
singular and impressive, were soon afterwards 
manied, and to them were bom several 
children, who died in infancy ; but the fourth 
lived to illustrate on the widest sphere of 
action the principles which had guided his 
parents. In spite of the war-taxes — the bread 
at i6^(f. per quartern loaf — they managed 
to give this child and two younger ones who 
had been spared to them the best education 
th^t was within reach ; and not only so, but 
in every possible way they tried to interest 
their children in missionary and philanthropic 
enterprises. The mother, we are told, 
omitted no opportunity of takmg the eldest 
boy to missionary meetings. They witnessed 
together the setting apart and sailing of two 
young missionaries, and the next morning at 
break of day, being the Sabbath, we find her 
praying that some good thing might appear 
in the heart of her boy. 

But grace needs time to grow, especially 
in young hearts. At the age of fifteen the 
boy left his father's roof to be regularly 
apprenticed to his trade, and was tempted 
by his master's sons into play-going and other 
doubthil pastimes. The remembrance of bis 



mother abode with htm, and soon he takes a 
memOTable resolve to separate himself com- 
pletely from his ungodly companions : he de- 
termined to leaveandreturnhome, even though 
the cancelling of his indentures should involve 
loss. His parents were pleased rather than 
otherwise at this step ; and the boy, resolving 
to become as good an artificer as if he had 
served an apprenticeship, established himself 
in his father's garret, to work as best he could. 
Books, however, were too attractive for him 
to allow of his entire devotion to watch- 
making. His fa^er, in the midst of Sunday- 
school teaching and itinerant preaching to 
" the poor heathen round them " (to which last 
he had been earnestly incited by his wife), 
discovered the necessity of prosecuting the 
study of Greek and Hebrew, and naturally 
enough he was soon joined by his son, 
whose passion for study had grown day by 
day. " They read together the works of the 
old divines, and learned together to under- 
stand the Old and New Testaments in the 
original tongues." Moreover, the son accom- 
panied the father on those itinerant preach- 
ings at Barking-side, Woodford, Bonder's 
End, Lewisham, Dulwich, and other places. 
The picture of the two going forth in their 
blessed work is very quaint and striking : — 

"They left home early; the itioerant preacher 
with bis weU'Wom concordance in hand, and (he 
helpful youth carrying the Bible ; the father discoorsing 
as he went along the dusty roads, and the son turning 
up the references required with ease and rapidity. 
Returning at night after three services, it was their 
custom to while away the time by singing, as of old, 
or by repeating hymns. On reaching home, they 
recounted, in ean seriously inclined, * the texts and 
doctrines of the day.' " 

It is not to be wondered at that, under 
such guidance and example, the lad should 
desire to devote himself more exclusively to 
the teaching and preaching of the Word. He 
accordingly relinquished the watchmaking, 
and began to study with a view to the Inde- 
pendent ministry. After a successful course 
at Hackney College, with occasional preach- 
ing tours, he became minister of the New 
Road Chapel, London, at the early age of 
twenty-five, and was afterwards, while yet 
young, transferred to a charge at Hackney. 
He immediately took an active part in all 
benevolent and religious work, being espe- 
cially prominent in the founding of the East 
London Auxiliary to the Sunday Scliool 
Union and the East London Bible Society. 
The grounds on which he ^^loceeded in this 
Digitized by Vs-jQO^ig 



ORPHANS AND IMBECILES. 53 



raatter show clearly that he had completely 
grasped the relation between Christianity and 
true social reform — a point which all his after 
efforts were faithfully devoted to exhibiting. 
" I have been at great pains," he-sa]^, "to 
impress upon the poor that the Sabbath is 
their day, that the sanctuary is their house, 
and that the Kbie is their book." 

With a ready imagination, large knowledge 
of human nature, and no ordinary powers of ex- 
pression, it was only to be expected that litera- 
ture should have a strong fascination for such 
a one ; and he wrote some works of fiction 
which are yet refeired to, and compiled a 
h]^n-book and imposed hymns which are 
still snng in our churches, at the same time 
that he was ministering to increasing congre- 
gations and establishing a reputation as an 
eloquent preacher. But going about amongst 
the poor as he did, and seeing the sufiering and 
the woe that found no tongue and no relieving 
touch, at an early stage he was moved to do 
what he could to meet the needs of a much- 
neglected class. Orphanages are now so 
common, and the benefits they confer upon 
society so well understood and universally 
acknowledged, that it is perhaps hardly pos- 
sible to estimate the amount of moral courage 
and resolution required in Andrew Reed, 
who was then a comparatively obscure man, 
to venture on the task of founding an orphan 
home. And it is because bis literary work 
was first of all stimulated by this determina- 
tion that we have here referred to his writings, 
all the profits from which were to be devoted 
to this or to kindred objects. In 1816, he 
said of his first publication, " The profits, if 
any, are to be given to the Orphan Asylum — 
a charity in which I have a deep stake.'* But 
even this is not the first hint of the scheme. 
For his mother's house had itself become an 
orphanage. We find him writing : — 

*' Some mysteiy is made about my interest in or- 
phans. It has been sud that a poor child had been 
left at our docnr, and that we gave it shelter. That is 
not tme. My mother was an orphan, and she found 
a home ; and, in her turn, she gave a home to more 
than one ; and,, being called to visit a dying man 
whose ereat sorrow in death was leaving his mother- 
less duldien, she gave him a promise to be&iend 
them." 

Even so early as 1811 Andrew Reed and 
his sister Martha, when residing in the East 
of London, sought out and took pity on 
some motherless children in Wapping, whom 
for a time they supported entirely. The 
conviction of the necessity for an orphan 
home was thus a slowly-matured one, and 
when at length the time came for carrying it 
into effect, very admirable were Uie energy 



and tact which Dr. Reed brought to the task. 
He enlisted others of all denominations in the 
work, and showed his forecast by assodating 
with himself a cleigyman, to whose name he 
gave the first place. He managed to gain 
the ear of royalty and to secure co-operation 
firom the throne. The Dukes of Gloucester 
and Clarence were among the earliest sub- 
scribers. " The Duchess of Kent," he states, 
'* has been pleased to say that we shall have 
her help, and that of her little orphan daugh- 
ter, Victoria, to * a cause which, had he lived, 
her father woidd have espoused.' " Men of 
different characters and portions were willing 
to render him help; and soon the Orphan 
Asylum, a splendid building at Clapton, had 
upwards Of four hundred inmates. 

But, no sooner did Dr. Reed see this 
asylum secure in the affection and support 
of the country, than he was busy scheming 
out another, equally needed, if not even more 
so. In all the orphan institutions yet esta- j 
blished, no provision was made for children 1 
under seven years of age. Many heart- | 
rending cases of infants had been brought to 
his notice ; and he now set aboiU: founding ! 
an asyltun for their benefit, which issued ere 
long in the Infant Orphan Asylum, first at 
Hackney and then at Wanstead. His wis- i 
dom was well seen in the rules he laid down 
for the nurses here; dwelling on the absolute | 
need of currents of .&esh air passing con- 
tinually through the nursery. He says, too, | 
" Remember that the eye needs agreeable 
objects on which to gaze, the ear needs sweet ' 
harmony, and the heart needs human sym- | 
pathy, as surely as the stomach requires suit- 
able food. Children love birds and flowers. ' 
Birds, flowers, and, children love air and j 
light. Those who love children, love also j 
birds and flowers ; and such are fitted by 
Providence to become their best nurses." | 

It is needless for us here to go into details , 
concerning these two institutions ; for, unfor- 
tunately, owing to a differmce arising regard- j 
ing the methods more perhaps than the 
principles of the religious teaching, Dr. \ 
Reed felt it his duty to retire, in 1843, from 
any share in the management of institutions 
which he had founded. But he can say : — 

"There is abundant cause for thankfulness. Z am 
grateful that it was put into my heart to form the 
charity that I have been permitted for sixteen years 
to foster, and that Providence has so graciously smiled 
upon it. It has dwelt on my mind niglit and day ; 
the children's affection, like tendrils, have twined 
round my heart, <mly to be brokeo. 1 have visiied 
them and thdr Ytasae twice or thiice a week, and now 
I must never cross the threshold. . . . StjOT^Iit^h 
a year has passed, when I riddligiti'^eiMsliAilxiuuv : 



54 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



direction, and pass round it, like a silly bird fluttering 
about the nest &om which some rude hand had driven 
it." 

The presents of toys to the children were 
still always sent at Christmas, and were con- 
tinned to them by his will. 

But this change, whidi seemed at first only 
an adverse circumstance,' was destined to be 
more widely beneficial in the founding of 
other charities, which probably would not 
have been founded, or if founded would not 
have been so successfully developed had it 
not been for the lessons of wisdom and pa- 
tience that were gathered from these disap- 
pointments. It was not in Dr. Reed's nature 
to sit down in regret and despondency : it 
was essential to him that he should work, and 
have \aige objects of interest for his wide 
humati sympathy to rest on and to cherish. 
So he at once set about founding another 
asylum for orphans— the Asylum for Father- 
less Children at Reedham — ^in which should 
be combined the best features of both the 
asyltmns he had before established. 

" This charity," says the founder, "provides for the 
destitute orpbaa in his ereatest extremity; if the 
father shourd have died oefore its birth, or if tiie 
mother sfaoukl have expired on tbeinstantof ksbeing, 
on that instant this coarity would receire it into its 
bosom. What it will do for one it will dointhesaaw 
catholic love for all, without respect to Jew or Geotilf, 
cflofomBt or diaieiatr." 

We visited this institution a short time ago, 
and were much gratified both with the sani- 
tary and the educational arrangements. The 
house is beautifully situated on an elevation 
<Jose on the main railway line at Caterham. 
The grounds are beautifully laid out. One 
wing is devoted to the boys, and another to 
the girls, either wing ending in a covered 
playground well filled ^ith gymnastic a|^li- 
ances. Inside, the corridors are wide, the 
dormitories lo^ and well ventilated, though 
we might have preferred them smaller; the 
centre of the building being a noble dinbg- 
halL Everything, in fact, is in the most 
admirable order, beautifully fresh and airy. 
And, certainly, if we were pleased with this 
department, there was no cause for disap- 
pointment when we passed into the school- 
rooms. Furnished with everj' modem appli- 
ance — the walls hung with coloured prints 
of natural history specimens, and cases of 
objects in each room suited to the class for 
whom it is intended — ^it struct us at once 
tiat surely those rooms had yielded sugges- 
tions for the new London School-board 
Schools, some of which we had shortly before 
visited. Having been invited by Miss Wood 
Co ask any questions we thought fit, we made 



good use of our opportunity, and plied the 
pupils with queries in geography, Scripture 
history, natu^ history, and roots of words, 
quite out of the ordinary beat, and received 
such answers as showed more than an ordi- 
nary amount of knowledge. The singing, 
too, was good. The infant school was, if pos- 
sible, even more interesting. Here the chil- 
dren, some of them mere ii^nts,wont through 
the song drill of the Xindergaiten with more 
than usual proficiency, and the little questions 
put to them showed also that the instruction 
was thorough, though fitted to their years. 

Needlework necessarily fonns unimportant 
partrin the training of the girls,as themakiog 
of all their own clothes and outfits, also some 
of the boys* outfits, devolve upon them. 
Each senior girl is entrusted with the care of 
two or three juniors, and is held responsible 
for the neatness of their clothes nod general 
appearance. House and latmdry work, of 
course, also comes in for a share of attention. 

At the boys' side, under Mr. Edraed, it 
was the same. Some specimens of orna- 
mental writing and drawing certainly asto- 
nished us. We are quite sure that few mid- 
dle-class schools in London, for attendance 
at which hi^h fees are paid, could have shown 
a more saosfactory result As Air. Curtis, 
the inspector, says, Great painsare evidently 
taken to ground them in the elements of 
knowledge, and to in(^ce such a love of 
learning that they will not neglect self-improve- 
ment on retiring from the school." 

In addition, 5ie boys are taught to do most 
of the work in their own department, as bed- 
making, boot and knife cleaning, sweeping, 
dusting, iSic. ; and they are trained to be 
handy in the grounds, the workshop, and 
ofiice. On leaving at the ^e of fourteen 
they almost invariably find immediate employ- 
ment in which they seldom fail to aicceed. 
" Many," sajrs the report, " have now grown 
in> to ncmhood; and 1^ thor excellent 
characters, their oft-repeated expresstoos of 
gratitude for the education they have reocired, 
and by their contributions afford mudi en- 
couragement to those who visit and provide 
for the fatherless." There are about two 
hundred and fifty-five children at Reedham, 
one hundred and sixteen boys under Mr. 
Edmed, ninety girls in the first class, and fifty- 
three children in the infant school Of the 
two hundred and seventy boys who have left, 
the position of only eighteen is unknown, the 
rest being in .^ood situations and doing well ; 
some of &em indeed attaining a marked mea- 
Gure of success. 

It is veiy creditable, also, tetkis institution 
Digitized by LjQO^LC 



ORPHANS AND IMBECILES. 



55 



that all the teachers for a long period, with 
the exception of Mr. Edmed and Miss Wood, 
who have been there for many years, have 
been trained at Reedham. Some of the 
fiends <^ the institution pay stated visits 
to it, and Mis. Spalding and others .give 
regular treats and entertunments, vhich are 
much lodged forward to. The affectionate 
manner in which the ctuldren regard Mrs. 
Layton and the teachers showed that more 
the family feeling subsists at Reedham than 
is to be found in some institutions of the same 
kind, though this is really the sine qua n<m of 
true success in one and all of them. 

What is more surprising in Dr. Reed's life 
than in that of most men is the manner in 
which he held one idea in abeyance till he 
had found practical expression for the other. 
To Ais he owed much <^ his success. He 
must see one vessel well launched before he 
began to build ano&er, however dear his 
plau. So early as 1837, while yet Reedham 
was not, and flie differences had not arisen 
which separated him from Dalston and Wan- 
stead, we find him concerned about the con- 
dition of the poor idiots who were exposed 
to all kinds of thoughtlessness and cruelty. 
Over and over again the idea recurred, but 
had to be put aside. In 1846, however, he 
began to see his way more clearly, and wrote, 
•** Now I will go the lowest" Very soon 
after this, his decision was reinforced by an 
application from a member of his own chiurch 
on behalf of her idiot child, for whom no 
j^acx could be found. He visited the Con- 
tinait, made an examination into the mode 
of crai^ctiiig the imbecile department of the 
Bic€tre, and came home ready for action. 
Some men of note and of wealth came to his 
help, and the institution was founded In 
October, 1847. It is in many respects the 
greatest and the most interesting of Dr. 
Reed's achievements, and it is certainly the 
most complete and perfectly realised. A 
better position for the building <XHild hardly 
have been found than Earkwood. The 
house occupies a gentle elevation, looking 
down over a fine sweep of country towards 
the rising hills. It is aiiy and elevated, 
and thou£^ it is on a clay soil, has been 
found en&rely beahhy. We have had the 
.pleasure of visiting it both on a fSte and on 
an ordinary woiibng-day, and will shortly 
describe for our readers, as well as we can, 
its aspect on the latter. 

Advancing up the path, we see various 
^oups of men at work — so systematic and 
mdustrious that we are surprised to learn 
afterwards that they are inmates and not hired 



gardeners. Reaching the door, we are told 
that we can at once see through the building. 
We are first conducted over the working- 
rooms. Here are a band of bootmakers, 
stitching away industriously, and evidently 
very proud of their work ; one bearded fellow 
coming forward to diow us a neatly-stitdied 
"upper," of which he is proud as a child. 
" I done it all myself," he says, " every stitch 
of it and he falls to rubbing his fingers over 
the seams right lovingly. Then through 
rows of brush and mat-makers, we pass into 
a room where the industrial capacity is 
limited to picking down the materials for 
the mats ; little fellows running to shake 
hands with us,andperiiaps ask for a halfpenny. 
Many of these here have defective speech, we 
notice, and some are paralyzed. Then we 
pass on to the printing-room to see sur- 
prising woric in Uiat kind, types being set, 
formes imposed, and the press wrought by 
imbeciles. In the tailors* shop, too, very 
good work is being done; and evidently there 
is some real talent for carpentry, for much of 
the furniture of the institution has been made 
in the carpenter's shop ; while one man, wlio 
has a genius for ^ip-aix:diitecture, in a room 
of his own, constructs vessels of a remarkable 
character, and carves breast-pins out of bits 
of ivory, some of which are most original and 
beautifuL You are surprised at such evidence 
of talent, and ask why the man is bere^ to 
be told tlat his mediMtical skill is sometimes 
turned into channels tiliat prove him to be, if 
not idiotic, certainly a subject to be looked 
after closely. The Imen room, too, affords a 
sphere for a number of the woateii, where they 
sew and mend under efficient inspection and 
guidance. All through the kitchen and 
kundry— which are fitted up with wonder- 
fully complete appliances — patients are scat- 
tered through Uie staff, and it was perhaps 
one of the most interesting sights to see these 
imbeciles doing their part in serving out the 
dinner, as it was one of the most touching to 
see the crowd in the diiuag-hall eating it. 
The food is good and ample. The girls sit at 
one side the hall, and ^e men at t£e other; 
an attendant at the head of each table to 
keep OTdo-; and though some do not eat 
elegantly, there is nothing that could be called 
repulsive. Some, of course, w^ there who 
could not feed themselves. Of the two hun- 
dred and seventy in hall, seventy-three have 
the food cut up for them, sixty eat mince 
with a spoon, and fourteen are fed. Others, 
again, there are so filled with their hobbi-^s, 
that it is very eaisy to divert, tibem from their 
eating. There sat th^^^^^t^t^e^(op^]le 



56 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



arithmetical instinct, able to multiply four 
figures by four at once, and with absolute 
correctness ; and beyond him a little, the 
man with the historical memory, who could 
tell you tihe date of any great world-event, 
and after having, as from a book, recited 
answers to your queries for a whole hour, 
would plaintively ask you, " Now, am I an 
idiot ?" and &e moment aker that say some- 
thing very nonsensical. Then over against 
him again was the burying man, who kept a 
record of all the deaths, and had a pro- 
spective interest in each one's funeral ; and 
up at the far end the lad who fancied himself 
a prince's son, and was prone to assume royal 
airs. Any innocent fancy or liking, however, 
is gratified : and those patients who are fond 
of living creatures are allowed to have their 
pets, while those who have a love for flowers 
find work with the gardeners. Bearded men 
talk like little children, but there are not a few 
who cannot talk at all, and make known their 
wants, and express their feelings, by inarticu- 
late gurgling sounds. The exceptionally deve- 
loped faculties somehow affect us as strangely 
as the lack of any faculty at all ; for they are 
always found in association with the most 
puzzling perversities, defects, and oddities. 

And now we pass into the school. It is 
divided into six classes, as follow : — 

*' 1st Class — Read in Testameat, write seotences in 
copy'books, count pretty well, and add a little. 
Sod Class — Read easy words by speUioe, write easy 
words, count to fifty or sixty. 3rd Qass — Know 
nearly all the letters, can write a Tew letters, count 
to thirty or forty. 4th Class — Know a few letters, 
make strokes on the slate, count to ten or twenty. 
5th Class — Know a letter or two, scribble on the 
luate, imitate the shape of one or two letters with 
ieces of wood, count very little, speak a little, a few 
now their own names. 6th Class— Most of these 
will come when they are called or signalled." 

The first thing that strikes us is the marked 
disparity of age. Bearded men stand beside 
mere boys ; but there is no hint here of 
the worst phases of the affliction. In one 
class they are getting a lesson in singing ; 
and we very soon have good proof that they 
like it. The teacher repeats the verse to be 
sung first slowly, as a whole, and then, as 
they sing to the lead of the harmonium, it is 
repeated line by line, for some of them cannot 
read. They sing well, on the whole; and, 
when told to do so, they keep time with their 
hands, or by other motions of the body. 

Then we pass into a lower class, where 
an assistant-master is endeavouring to teach 
numbers by means of beads strung on wires 
in a frame. But many of these poor creatures 
cannot grasp the simplest lesson without great 
efTort, and it has to be gone over again and 



again, with a wearisome iteration that must 
demand in the teacher the utmost patience. 
Yet some of the scholars, by slow degrees, 
learn to write, and others draw beautifully. 
It is difficult, however, to get many of them 
to understand any rule, or to follow a set 
system of any kind ; indeed, sometimes the 
first lesson — to leam to sit still — ^is the most 
difficult of all, and a few never p»ss beyond 
it, if they even reach it Yet there are 
remarkable exceptions. 

It is veiy touching to see some of these 
poor children — ^boys of from eight or nine up 
to twelve or thirteen — so dull and torpid in 
intellect, that the effort of setting a little block 
of wood horizontally over another, in vertical 
position, so as rudely to form across orT^is an 
effort indeed. How often the head droops, 
the thin hands &11 flaccid, or begin to 
creep slowly, like the tentacula oi some low 
organism, round the bar, arrested in its short 
course towards the top of the other I Then 
comes the restoring touch of the teacher, 
constantly needed ; and the eflfort once suc- 
cessfully made seems as much as the stunted 
brain is capable of. Very often the eyes are 
affected, and sight as well as speech is irre- 
gular. Patience and loving care alone avail 
here ; and we are astonished at learning that 
some of the boys we have just seen in that 
other room, singing and beating time to the 
music, were at first as low as this. Music is 
indeed a wonderful restorative agent, and is 
used here to great purpose. But we pass on 
— into a room where we find a small detach- 
ment of various ages, of whom there is little 
or no hope. There they sit listless, strapped 
in their chairs, or they lie on the floor, pil- 
lowed, as the fit took ttiem. They need to be 
watched, and fed, and ministered to in every- 
thing — bodies, it would seem, without souls, 
mere automatons, with no conscious tie to 
the humanity outside, that can look on only 
with feelings compounded of pain and pity. 
Again, crossing "the passage, we are ushered 
into a room where are a number of infant 
epileptics. It is joyless and depressing, 
though the place is sweet and clean as can 
be, and all is done that can be done for them. 

Going over to the girls' wing, we see much 
the same thing theit— though ihe female side 
is not so numerously populated, probably 
because idiot girls are more easily managed 
at home, and in many cases retained there. 
We go from class to class just as among the 
boys. It is odd to see the naive and some- 
times graceful freedom with which a girl of 
ten or twelve, moved by some sudden impulse, 
will rise and advance towards you — ask to 



ORPHANS AND IMBECILES. 57 


see your watch, or beg for a copper — for the 
accumulative instinct is strong in both sexes. 
In a certain class, where shop-weights and 
weighing are taught, the knowledge of ordi- 
nary articles of housekeeping is stimulated by 
appeals to the palate, and it is surprising, when 


you are told to look at the drawers, to find 
how quickly the way to certain of them is 
learned and how they are kept at a low level, 
while others remain always full. 

We are now led up to the dormitories, 
which are extremely spacious, fresh, and neat. 




Asylum for Fatbcrleu Children, Keedtiami 




Asylnm for Idiota, EarlswDod. 



And here an important element in the manage- 
ment and administration of the institution is 
made apparent to us. For, after having looked 
in at several bedrooms, we are ushered into 
one that is in every regard more like what 
one would expect to see in a palace than in 



a charity. We express our surprise. " Oh, 
these are the bedrooms of the paid patients, 
first class," is the reply, and we are led to 
understand that in the institution so much 
space is reserved for those for whom payment 
can be made. The payments range from ^50 



SUNDAY MAGAZIK£. 



to £,2^0f and the style of furnishing and at- 
tendance is in accordance with the scale. 
The system here is so perfect — the raedicai 
skill so thorough and ever ready at hand, that 
even this class can be better done by here 
tlian they could possibly be in private ; while 
the money paid for them enables tlie institu- 
tion to take in a larger number of other pa- 
tients. We were much struck with several of 
the improvements which Dr. Grabham — who 
kindly explained all the details to us — has 
succ^sfiilly introduced, e^dally with the 
electrical warning, by wluch any omission in 
shutting or lockii^ of doors may be imme- 
diately detected, and by means of which de- 
falcations have been quickly found out and 
stopped. Then, leaving the main huihling, 
we take our way to the farm^eading, whidi 
was only completed hbt year, at the expense 
of Ji friend of the charity, to be both delighted 
and astonished at the perfection and .ajdmir- 
able order which are there to be witnessed. 

We can honestly say that we do not re- 
member to have seen anythiog finer in oiigi- 
nal conception, mc»e successfully csnied out, 
or more worthy of biger public support than 
tfae Earlswood Asylum for Idiots, it has 
deserved^ beasue themodel for many o&ers 
throughout the world, and surpasses the 
Bicetre which yielded Dr. Reid many sugges- 
tions. Wonderful are the cures in some 
cases, and the quiet and order and comfort 
exercise a beneficial infloence on all ; the con- 
tentment visible on every face that is capable 
of expressing any feeling, is something to 
make one ^ad; a fSte day at Earlswood 
being altogether one of the most astonishing 
sights we have ever seen. 

At the date of the last Report the total num- 
ber of inmates was five hundted and seven^-- 
six (maks, three htmdred and eighly-^ve, fe- 
males, one hundred and ninety-oae), and wUh 
those who were Ihen elected, the number is 
now about sue htmdred and fifteen. Of this 
number, two hundred and nine^-eight males 



and one hundred and five females are in one 
way or another usefully employed. Dr. 
Grabham states that, whilst the death-rate has 
been swelled by the adniissian of h(;^>eless 
epileptic ca^es, which at one time were ex- 
cluded, and still are excluded from most 
sister asylums, it is still only 3 28 per cent. 
Since the date of his appointment, more than 
six years ago, there had been no death from 
fever or infisctious disease. The proportion of 
attendants to this class of patients is of course 
very large; and difficulties have felt 
owing to thdr leaving from the inducements 
of higher wages elsewhere — ^which is a pity, as 
changes must tend to make the -administiatioa 
diffioilt, and be unfavourable to the patients. 

Of tfae Hospital for Incurables at Putney, 
i^ch was the last great undertaking of Dr. 
Reed's, we do not need to speak here ; for 
it was one of the last themes which Dr. 
Guthrie's pen nude eloquent to the readers 
of this magazine.* It alone would have suf- 
ficed to make its founder memorable. Some- 
thing Uke six tfaausand incuxaUes, we kam, 
axe turned out of the Ixmdon ho^ntals yeaily, 
without home to go or, if snne have a 
home, it is a miserable one. To have iiDiuukd 
five sudi mstitutioiffi — ott to spe^ of liis 
missionary efforts, and his work in behoof of 
penny banks, education, and other causes — 
is enough to make Dr. Reed's position as a 
philanthropist secure. And, considering the 
disadvantages he had to cont^d widi, his 
career holds forth a rich enconiagement to all 
who would tread in the same benignant path. 
A great English wrker says of a certain poet 
that he was the outcotne of many faithful but 
humble generations : looking at Dr. Reed's 
charities, we mi{^t almost say. See die outcome 
of the orphan, Mary Anne Mullens's love 
and fiuth, and talce courage in true service I 

H. A. PACE. 



la. 



RELIGIOUS LIFE W THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



I.— THE SOHINICAK FRBACHIB. 



npHE Middle Ages seem too fcir off to j men and women who had the same human 
interest us much, and the names of hearts that we have, and the same hmnan life 
great and noble men who lived in these times beatiz)^ impatiently within their breasts. The 
are to us very often names only, and do not | conditions of life were very different; the 
excite much emotion in our hearts when we historical settiiig of the times, so to speak. 



hear them, or read of the brave deeds which 
they did in these old days. They are lay 
figiues to us, for the most part, not living 



was strange; Chucch life, as it then shaped 
itself, was n^t what we are accustomed to ; 
and so it is somewhat hard fo^us to j[gt.^to^ 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



59 



linng personal connection with the actors in 
iSk many strange and tn^o^ dramas which 
von enacted in Old Europe when the Cru- 
sades were within the memory of man, and 
the great Reformation was as yet a derout 
imagination. But when we get behind the 
scenes, when we penetrate beneath the stately 
sm^ice How of history, and read the sermons 
of Eckbart, the good little boolas of Nicholas 
of Basle, when we listen to the acconnt of 
the conversion of John Taukr of SteisbuTg, 
;3ee Hoiry Suso sitting in his little summer- 
house looking out on the waters of the Rhine, 
ior fiaityin company with one of the manypil- 
gtimsyold Jan ran Ruusbroec in his inonas&ny, 
to tell him how fre have sped, and seek from 
tbe aged Christian spiritiud const^tion and 
instEUctioo, we find tiuat there was tiasn, as in 
most stages of the world's hist<^, a marvel- 
lously Imman element with which we can 
have full 3]rmpathy. These people, although 
-they lived fire or six hundred years a^, were 
men and women like ourselves. They had 
their home-life as we have, a father's ripe 
wisdom and a mother's fond love encircled 
iton and shielded them when they went out 
into the world. The same &T-off heaven 
looked down upon them, the same green 
earth sheltered them; tlwy had the same 
daily round of taaks and duties, the same 
fipmly life, same commonplace joys, and 
the .same humble sorrows, in spite the 
Cmsades, and the Age of Chivaky, and the 
Holy Roman Empire, and the Holy Catholic 
■Chtoch, and all the host of abstmct realities 
under wiuch history conceals the Kfi; of the 
times, men lived oa very mudi as we do now 
— marrying and gjiviog in marrii^e ; begetting 
and-educatii^ children, and often sore put to 
to do it; burying each other when the time 
came rotmd ; andgossipingover all of the cam- 
monplace events. Man's life is very much the 
aame wherever he may be ; times alter oat- 
-wardljir, the eonditicms of Ufe charge, the 
exteznal drcomstances differ; but just as a 
, Amity diamoiu], which each heir as in- 
JttriCs it causes to be recutand reset, is the 
Aame piceless old jewel, so human life fitches 
foith in the same way from generatioti to 
^necation, no matter how altered its setting 
may be, or what new fashions rule it. 

And so the religious life of the time is not 
a strange diing, but wonderfully familiar to 
-us, if ^ get lid of the outside surroundings 
and penetrate to the heart of it When we 
open ooc of the little books, brown with ^ 
and sadly dilapidated often, which have come 
down to us, we read in it the record of the 
Jife iif a human soul who had the same 



yearnings after God, the same temptations to 
overcome, the same self-will Ui conquer, and 
the same sms to confess and turn from. 
There, in the tattered little book, lies " trea- 
sured up to a life beyond life " the confessions 
of a fellow^man, who, in the far-o*F Middle 
Ages, of^en under a monk's cowl, or a travel- 
ling merchant's robe, or a knight's armour, 
concealed a heart which day by day poured 
out heftae God the same fears and longings, 
the same friulties and endeavours, the same 
encouragements ond-denpondings, which make 
up our reHgioue Ufe. ITwe remember this, it 
is not difficult to sympathize with and even 
nndentand the hidcten springs of those great 
waves of religbus revival for which the four- 
teenth century was distingui^ed. 

A great religious revival always rests on an 
intense yeamii^ after a life nearer to God, a 
life of personal fellowship with the living and 
the holy God. Sometimes this eagem^s 
tfikes advantage of the madiinery of ordinary 
Church life, and makes it a dhannel by 
which it can abroach God, to whom it seeks 
to draw near. Then we speak of a period of 
revival. At other times the new-bom, reli- 
gious zeal finds no adequate expression within 
the Qiurch, but seeks, by a special organiza- 
tion of its own, to stimulate and regukte the 
spiritual Ufe ; such periods are for the most 
part times of mysrical enthusiasm. At other 
times the tide of new spiritual life, while feel- 
ing that the machinery of ordinary Church' 
life is inadequate to contain and express it, 
is yet strong enough to change the whole 
character of the discipline and usages of the 
Churdi, and bring them into true conformity 
with it and its necessities. Such a period is 
a time of Reformation. The religious revi- 
vals of the fourteenth century belong to the 
second class. It would not be true to say 
that the rel^fioas life of that period was 
wholly outside of the Church, or that there 
were not multitudes of pious men and women 
who fived and died widiin Ae Churdi, and 
■never sought anything beyond it ; but when- ' 
ever any religious revival came, it invariably 
soi^ht — by meims of religious associations 
and fraternities, which were not recognised 
by the Church, and often expressly con- 
demned by it— 40 cultivate that spiritual life 
which, it seemed to it, the ordinary organiza- 
tion of the Church was too arrificiai and 
mechanical to help. Nor do these revivals 
assume the character of a rdbrmaticni, or even 
of an attempt at reformation. The great 
leaders in these religious movements did 
not conlemi^te any sweeping changes, and 
Idft undistiubed, and witlfiigtizevlcii^ 



iges, and i 



6o 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



ing against them, the Church discipline or 
usages of the day. They felt, however, that 
ordinary Church life was too mechanical, too 
stifif and artificial, for them ; they felt that it 
lay between them and God like a barrier to 
a nearer approach rather than a way of 
access, and diey attempted to devise such a 
mode of life as would enable them to ap- 
proach nearer to God, and yet allow the ordi- 
nary Church machinery to stand where it did. 
What we are called to contemplate here, there- 
fore, is a fervent religious life, sin^larly apa- 
thetic on the churchly or social side, content 
to tolerate any amount of abuse and artificiality 
in the Church, and yet intensely devout on 
the personal or individual side, striving in 
every way for the promotion of personal piety, 
and endeavouring by various inventions to 
facilitate individual growth in grace. < 

I purpose in these papers to attempt to 
describe this religious life of the fourteenth 
century, by giving a short account of the life 
and labours of one or two of the great leaders 
in the spiritual revivals of the times — Meister 
Eckhart, John Tauler of Strasburg, Nicholas 
of Basle, and others. 

Eckhart, or " Meister" Eckhart as he was 
called, is one of those persons for whom a 
later posterity has vindicated the place which 
he held among his contemporaries. While 
he lived he was a great preacher, and his 
fame was spread abroad over the greater part 
of Europe. He died in the communion of 
the Catholic Church, and although some of 
the doctrines which he preached were con- 
demned, and justly condemned, by the Pope, 
it was reserved for succeeding generations to 
vilify himself and his opinions. He has been 
classed among those wild mystics, whose doc- 
trines were subversive of allmorality and politi- 
cal life, as well as destructive to the life of the 
Church ; and it has been said that he listened 
favourably to the teachings of the exponents of 
theories of Free Love, Communism, aAd Pan- 
theism, if he did not actually preach such 
doctrines himself. Modern historical research 
has proved the falsehood of all these charges, 
and has shown that while they were being 
made, sermons of Eckhart's were being cir- 
culated in the most approved books of devo- 
tion, under the names of Tauler, Ruusbroec, 
and Henry Suso. He was a pious monk, a 
learned man, an eloquent preacher, and was 
at the head of what afterwards proved itself 
to be a great religious movement 

Eckhfut's biographers cannot tell us much 
about his life, little or nothing about his early 
days and education. The place and the year 
of his birth are both unknown, and can only 



be conjectured. It is probable that he was 
bom in Strasburg some time about the year 
1260. He must have been a boy when 
Edward I. ascended the English throne, or 
when the Fair Maid of Norway died, and the 
wars of Scottish Independence began. We 
know nothing about his father and mother,, 
who they were, or to what rank of life they 
belonged. It is probable they were of the 
shrewd, skilful, burgher class, who were then 
rising into great importance, and were begin- 
ning to have their say in state afiairs. It is 
imfortunate that we know nothing of Eck- 
hart's mother ; the old German house-mother 
must have exercised a great deal of influence 
on the character of the enthusiastic clever 
boy, for Eckhart is continually using a mother's 
love, and a mother's power and influence,* as 
an illustration of the way in which the Spirit 
of God silently and impalpably lays hold on 
and directs the soul of man. It must have been 
a struggle to the poor mother to part with her 
bright boy, and send him out, not into the 
world it is true — into a convent, but still away 
from her. But in these days there was always a 
fund of resignation andcahn endurance, more 
especially in the pious German woman, which 
we have lost to a large extent ; and this 
virtue of resignation is always extolled in the 
sermons of these old mystics. 

It is at the University of Paris, that great 
centre of intellectual and religious life, that 
we first meet Eckhart. We find him a re- 
nowned lecturer there in the year 1302. It 
is strange to find in these old times a contro- 
versy going on not unlike the modem one 
between national and sectarian education^ 
At all the great universiti^ — Oxford, Paris, 
Vienna, &c, — besides the regular professors 
and teachers, we find lecturers who did not 
belong to the university, but to private 
colleges, supported by the more energetic 
of the monastic orders. The idea seems to 
have prevailed that at the universities the 
training was not sufficiently impregnated with 
rehgion, and that orthodoxy and piety both 
suffered ; and so the Augustinians and Domi- 
nicans — these were the most important orders 
who specially gave themselves to this work — 
planted colleges side by side with the colleges 
of the universities, and did all in their power 
to induce young men to attend lectures there 
instead of going to the ordinary classes. The 
lecturers in these convent schools were in- 
variably able men, generally young men, who 
could compete on more than equal terms with 
the university teachers. The Dominican 
College in Paris was called the College of St. 
James, and Ec^l«jt'sj>^si^g^^lecturer 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 6i 



on theology shows that his order had soon 
learned to appreciate his talents and abilities. 
It was his duty to lecture on the Sentences of 
Peter of Lombardy, and- support the conclu- 
sions therein contained by arguments derived 
&om philosophy and from the Holy Scriptures; 
and it is worthy of note that Eckhart began 
that scriptural teaching of theology for which 
the Dominican College became famous. So 
mudi did Eckhart study the Holy Scriptures 
and make them the foundation of all his pre- 
lections, that when in accordance with the 
custom of the time a special designation was 
given to the Dominican lecturer, he was not 
called the Angelical Doctor, like his great 
predecessor Thomas Aquinas, nor the Subtle 
Doctor, nor by any of the usual names; it 
was felt that one epithet, and one only, was 
pre-eminently suitable, and he became known 
by the title "Meister der Heiligen Schrift," 
Master of the Holy Scriptures — a title which 
his scholars fondly shortened into the familiar 
** Meister," or " Master " Eckhart. Old en- 
gravings enable us to conceive theda^room 
and its occupants at their daily work. The 
professor sat m a desk not unlUte the square 
desks found in old village schools, with his 
books before him, the Sentences of Peter the 
Lombard, which was the great theological 
text-book of the day, and the Bible. Close 
beside him was a great black board, and he 
had chalk and a cane to point out the words 
which he wished his students to pay most 
heed to. Then all round the master's desk 
were the students, some squatting on the 
floor, some standing, some of them with rude 
writing materials, but most of them without 
anything of the kind. The manner of lectur- 
ing was curbus. First, one of the paragraphs 
from the Sentences was read out by,die^ecturer 
and committed to memory by the students, 
then the passages from Scripture were read and 
committed to memory in the same way, and 
when this preliminary work was got through, 
the lecturer in clear, vivid, often eloquent 
language, explained what had been dictated, 
the students reverently listening the while. 

This was Eckhart's work when we first 
meet him, but he was soon to be called away 
to another and more laborious service. Like 
many devout men of this time, he had not 
hitherto come into any close reladon with the 
common religious Hfe of the day. His work 
was in the convent He spent his days in 
fellowship with young, ardent, hopeful spirits, 
and was not much acquainted with the fearful 
abuses which reigned almost supreme around 
him. His eyes were soon to be opened. 
Boniface VIII. was the occupant of the papal 



chair, and had become involved in a dispute 
with Philip the Fair of France. The position 
of the French clergy was becoming somewhat 
delicate; they must either side with the Pope 
or with the King, and, they wished to do 
neither. William of Occam, the professor of 
divinity in the Universi^ of Paris, bad felt 
no hesitation, but had boldly denounced the 
tyranny of the Pope, and had carried the 
University and the Franciscans along with 
him ; but the Dominicans and the rest of the 
clei^ wished to temporise and to steer clear 
of both parties. A deputation was accord- 
inglj- selected and sent to Rome, and one of 
the party was Meister Eckhart. This was 
the turning-point in his life. He saw Rome, 
and was not enchanted with it. The sight 
of it affected him very much, as it did Luther 
afterwards, and although he did not denounce 
the life there in the strong unmeasured lan- 
guage which the eloquent Augustinian used 
two centuries later, still the grave German 
irony of his descriptions of Roman pie^ was 
not without its effect. It is from this visit 
diat we must date Eckhart's dislike to the 
mechanical and artificial discipline of the 
Church which had produced such bad results; 
and his resolve to seek to promote personal 
holiness by other and different methods. It 
is characteristic of the man and of the times 
that he uttered no open protest against the 
shameless immorality openly practised at the 
papal court ; he accepted the degree of 
Doctor of Theology from Boniface VIII.; 
nor was he moved to endeavour to reform or 
abolish the whole system of Church life and 
discipline. The cure lay, he thought, in the 
reformadon of the individual or personal life, 
and he was content to leave the Church to 
reform herself. 

Eckhart's visit to Rome probably brought 
him into closer relationship with the heads 
of his order, for we find that shortly after his 
visit there he was appointed Provincial of the 
Dominicans in the Teutonic province. The 
old province of Saxony, whidi included the 
most part of Germany and Austria, had got 
too large *to be easily managed, and was 
divided into two, and Eckhart was made the 
first Provincial of the new, or Teutonic pro- 
vince, as it was Called. This was in 1304. 
His work there was so well done, that he was 
soon marked out for further promotion. The 
Dominicans were very numerous in Bohemia, 
but the convents in that country were in a 
very bad state. The laxity of rule, and the 
growing immorality, called for a speedy re- 
formation. Accordingly, in 1307, Eckhart 
was appointed Vicar-^ea5r^^<^f^0TO^ 



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62 



cans in Bohemia, with power to reform the 1 
cloistere thoroughly. This appointment com- 
pelled him to make long journeys of inspec- 
tion, and the sights which he saw roosed the 
indignation of his pious nature; He saw that 
it was hopeless to look to the ordinary 
machinery of the Church for help — that 
machinery, left to itseJf, had fostered and was 
fostering Uie abtises. The only hope lay in 
the reformation of the individual Christians, 
and especially of the individual clergy. A 
spfaituaUy-minded chtirdi, Eckhart thought, 
must be composed of spiritually-minded 
members ; — reform the lives of the men and 
women who compose the Church, and Church 
reform will come of its own accord. Accord- 
ingly in these journeys Eckhart devoted him- 
self to dealing with the monks and nuns under 
his care. He spoke to them individually, 
and strove to elevate the tone of piety 
wherever he went. It was while engaged in 
this work that he discovered his true railing; 
The discoveiy came somewhat late, for E-ck- 
hait was almost fifty years old, bnt not too 
late to prevent him nam doing a great ser- 
vice to the cause of spiritual religion. That 
he had been a successful teacher there is no 
reason to doubt ; that he was a good organ- 
izer and had an eminently practical turn of 
mind is proved by his success in organizing 
the aifairs of tlie Teutonic province of the 
Dominican order ; but it was as a preacher 
and one who, besides preaching, could deal 
faithfully, tenderly, and powerfully with indi- 
vidual men and women tliat Eckhart was to 
do his great work. He was fifty ytors old 
ere he found his true vocation, but God gave 
him nearly twenty ycax^ to exercise his preach- 
ing and evangelising gifts. 

We are not told when Eckhart began to 
preach re^larly. It was when on one of his 
tours of inspection that we find him all at 
once a famous preacher. His success was as 
great as it was startling; and when once he 
had begun to preach, he continued to do so 
on till the end of his life. His usual habit 
was to preach at least once every day when 
on his official journeys. After inspecting the 
monastery and conversing with the monks 
or nuns, he preached in the convent chapel. 
This was usually followed by private inter- 
views with those of his hearers who had been 
specially touched by his sermon. Hien he 
preached in public — -in tfaeconventchapel now 
open to the public, or if that was too small, 
in the open air — to the townsfolk or villagers. 
After every sermon he had private interviews 
with those of his hearers who wished to speak 
to {lira about their spiritual lives. From such 



I as asked him he heard confession and pre- 
scribed penances, and he occasionally cele- 
brated mass J but the work to which he gave 
himself was preaching and conversation v,ith 
those whom his sermons had awakened. He 
urged upon them the necessity of personal 
holiness ; he dwelt on the grandeur of the 
calling to which men are called to become 
sons of God through the Holy Spirit, and his 
favourite theme of exhortation was the In- 
carnation of Christ and the consequent pos- 
sibility of personal intercourse with Him and 
union to Him. We can well imagine that 
his sermons had a most powerful influence 
upon the minds of the people. Men were 
becoming tired of a Church which was a 
political power above all things, and which 
was neglecting spiritual interests while listen- 
ing eagerly to the whispers of temporal am- 
bition. Men were becoming weary of the 
merely official holiness of the Church and the 
clergy, and were be^ning to grow impatient 
of a supposed sanctity which was quite com- 
patible with tiie grossest immorality; and 
yet the times were not ripe for a succe^ul 
revolt against the Church in the name of 
religion. They listened eagerly, therefore, to 
the great Dominican teacher who told them 
that the remedy for the prevaifing imrnorality 
lay in their own hands, that all external s)'s- 
tems, ecclesiastical or other, availed but little, 
and depended on the spirit of the men who 
used them. They venerated a disciple of 
St. Dominic, who put down with a strong 
hand the licentiousness of fiiars, and at the 
same time proclaimed that the spiritual life, 
even in its highest form, was not tiie posses- 
sion of a caste, but was the inheritance of 
every humble Christian, layman or cleric. And 
it was a new and heart-stirring thing for men 
who seldom heard sermons irom the regular 
clergy at all, and who were accustomed to 
listen to a strange medley of Scripture quota- 
tions, queer jokes, and questionable stories, 
when tlie preachrngfiiarmade bis appearance 
in their village at the fair time, or on some 
holiday, to gather round the grave, dignified 
scholar and ecclesiastic, and hear the most 
noble thoughts about the greatness of the 
work of Oirist and of the love of God, and 
about, the grandeur <rf" the calling to which 
the gospel beckons men, expressed in the 
keenest and homeliest German. Eckhart was 
a scholar, but when he went to preadi to the 
people he did not disdain to use the verna- 
cular, and even descended to the colloquial. 
We can conceive how the feelings of the 
crowd of grave German burghers were stirred 

as they listenedJo sentences like these: "God 

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63 



Ims become man, and has thereby raised and 
glorified the whole human race. AVe can 
r^oice ftat our Brother is by his own power 
nralted over all the choirs of angels, and is 
aat down at the rig^t hand of the Father. 
. . . . God has become man that I, that 
you, may praise God ; God has died that I, 
ibat you, may die to all the world and to 
every created thing. .... As tiiou lovest, so 
art thou ; lovest thou the earth, then art 
thou earthly; loTest thou God, then art then 
godJy .... Mine outward man tastes all 
creatures as creatures mily — -wine as wine, 
bread as bread ; mine inward man tastes them 
not as creatures, but as the gifts of God ; and 
in all his gifts God gives Himself." The ser- 
mons, too, were eminently scriptural. Eck- 
hart^ tnoning as Professor of Theology in the 
Cc^lege of 9t. James, where he won the title 
of " Master of tbe Holy Scriptures," stood 
him in good stead now. His disoomses are 
fall of scriptural qaotations ; they are full too 
of that quaint allegorizing which so ftequendy 
accompanies what may be termed reviv^ 
preaching. Men who insist so much on the 
inward life, on the spirit as opposed to the 
letter, are apt to lose sight of the external or 
historical in the ordinary individual life, in 
the Church, and even in the Bible, and Eck- 
hart was no exception. "The raising of the 
widow's son furnishes him with materials for 
more dian one allegory. In the second ser- 
imra on the sixteenth Sunday after Trinity 
the widow is the Soul, and her dead son the 
Reason, wiiich our Lord animates with a 
new life. .... In tbe story ofthe Woman of 
Samaria the woman is a type of the Soul, the 
0ve husbands whom she has had are the five 
senses : with these she had sinned, and there- 
fore are they dead. Christ says, 'Bring 
hither thy husband / this is Free Will. She 
repUes, * I have no husband on which Christ 
says, ' Thou hast well said, I have no hus- 
buid,' her free will was not her own, bnt in 
bondage to sin." Still the beautiful allegories 
were not without their power over the hearts 
and minds of his hearei^, and even when we 
read the cold dry abstracts of his sermons — 
aU we have of them — we can fed what they 
mttit have been when delivered to a cnn^d 
syn^wdi^c audience by a preacher fiill of 
gmwe enthusiaBm. 

Eckharfs personal connection with those 
«4ieni he preached to and conversed with 
did not cease when he left the town or 
ooantry side. He encouraged all who had 
been awakened by his sermons and qucs- 
tiotrings to form themselves together into 
small companies for the purpose of encourag- 



ing each other in holy living and for studying 
the Bible ; and he kept up a vast correspond- 
ence with the members of these associations. 
On to the day of his death he received and 
answered numberless letters fhnn all parts of 
Germanjr from pious friends who wrote to lay 
before him their spiritual difficulties, and to 
whom he sent such answers as he thought 
suitable to their case. These associations 
were of the simplest nature. They were not 
intended to be ecclesiastical societies, or to 
supersede the ordinary Church life. The 
pious men and women who belonged to them 
did not devote themselves to a religious life in 
the ordinary sense of the word, they were for 
the most part engaged in secular avocations. 
Many a friar and nun were membas, it is 
true, but so were pious matrons, burghers and 
merchants, ladies of gentle birth, knights and 
noblemen. The only tie which bound them 
tt^tfaer was diat ttiey had heard Meister 
Eckhart preach, Irad listened to his soul- 
searching questions, and were now under his 
guidance seeking to live truly pious lives, 
striving to live as Christ had lived. The 
members of these associations did not with- 
draw themselves from the ordinary means of 

; grace. They went to church as formerly, 
heard mass, went to confession, and performed 
penance if imposed ; but all the while they 
had a spirittial life of their own, sustained in a 
special way, independent of their Church life, 
and yet no more interfering with it than with 
their common round of domestic and sodal 
duties. It was a main feature in Eckhart's 

I teaching that the external form was nothing, 
that the innmd spirit was everything. He 
cared very little for the form, provided the 
spirit was right ; and so the spiritual life which 
he encouraged his disciples to aim after was 
not one that interfered with their every-day 
occupations. In order to be religious, it was 
not necessary to lead an external religious 
life, to become one of the clergy, or a mem- 
ber of a religious fraternity ; still less was it 
necessary or even profitable to utter any loud- 
voiced protest against the practices of the 
Churdi. And so in the associations whidi 
Eckhart formed, the main thing to be attended 
to was the cultivation of personal piety under 
all manner of outward circumstances and sur- 
rotmdings. 

By-and-by Eckhart did not confine himself 

to that round of visits which his official duties 
compelled him to make ; he went out on mis- 
sionary tours, and preached in most of the 
cities in Austria and Germany, but it was to 
the Rhine provinces that he chiefly confined 




64 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



headquarters. At first he was unopposed, 
but ere long antagonists arose. The oppo- 
sition was at first merely one instance of the 
rivalry between the parish clergy and the 
preaching friars. This jealousy was a vei^ 
natural thing. The parish clergy found their 
parishes invaded by a host of mendicant 
friars, who interposed between them and their 
people, interfered with their work, and inter- 
cepted many a sum of money that otherwise 
would have come into their pocket. The 
friars were equally unacceptable to the higher 
clergy, for they disowned their authority, and 
obeyed no rulers save the chiefs of their 
order and the Pope. Constant disputes 
arose between the parish clergy, headed by 
their bishops, and the Dominican and other 
monks. When Eckhart began to preach in 
the Rhine provinces he found himself op- 
posed by the Bishop of Strasburg and the 
Archbishop of Koln, and had to defend 
himself and his preaching before the Pope. 
It is more than probable that these ecclesias- 
tics felt that they had good grounds for ac- 
cusing Eckhart, or they would scarcely have 
ventured to attack a popular Vicar-general of 
such a powerful order as the Dominicans. 
The time was a period of great religious rest- 
lessness, more especially in Germany. The 
Church was fast losing its hold on the people. 
There was evidence of an intense popular 
yearning after a true and holy life, after union 
■with Christ, accompanied by an intense dis- 
like of the priestly yoke. Piety without 
priestcraft was the popular cry. It was a 
time of pious associations, of unions of Chris- 
tians for religious purposes. In this popular 
movement there was a true and a false idea. 
The true idea was the freedom and fulness of 
the Gospel ; that the religious life, piety and 
spirituality, were not the possession of a caste, 
but the spiritual birth-right of every humble 
believer. The false idea was the extravagant 
conception of the Christian life. Just as the 
Corinthian converts, whom Paul rebukes, 
seem to have thought that Christianity is a 
new life in the sense that when a man enters 
into it he is no longer bound by the regula- 
tions of the old natural life, so these mediaeval 
enthusiasts fell into many extravagances. 
They forgot that when a man becomes a 
Christian he does not cease to be a man ; 
like many modem sectarians, they gave curious 
and private interpretations of what is meant 
by " the world " which Christians are to re- 
nounce. They did not take a broad view of 
the Christian human life and its duties and 
responsibilities, and, like the Corinthians, 



they fell into all manner of mistakes about 
the true meaning of the Christian life. Sects 
sprang up teaching, on Christian principles, 
the most pernicious morjUity, and the wildest 
notions of the modem advocates of free love 
and of modem communist revolutionists were 
equalled, if not surpassed, by the Beghards 
and by Uie brethren and sisters of the Free 
Spirit. If the Church had exerted itself early 
enough, a movement which, at the beginning 
at least, was founded upon true and genuine 
piety, would not have ended in such horrible 
extravagances of life and doctrine. But the 
Church had remained apathetic, and, in con- 
sequence, many parts of Germany, and espe- 
cially the Rhine provinces, were overrun by 
these dangerous fanatics. 

His ecclesiastical opponents accused Eck- 
hart of sympathizing with these immoral 
enthusiasts, and holding privately, if he did 
not preach publicly, many of their pernicious 
doctrines. It is impossible to believe that 
the accusation was true, but there were 
grounds for some suspicion. It is undoubted 
that many of these sectaries flocked to hear 
Eckhart preach, and that he was in communi- 
cation with many of their leaders. A man so 
careless as he was about what he considered 
the "letter," if only the " spirit " was right, 
would be negligent enough in such matters, 
and it is clear that the sectaries had hopes that 
they might win him over to themselves. The 
Bishop of Strasburg drew up a list of propo- 
sitions containing doctrines which were noto- 
riously those professed by these Pantheist and 
Communist sects, and which he said Eckhart 
taught. After due examination the Pope 
pronounced in favour of the Dominican 
preacher, who had been powerfully supported 
by his Order. But from this time forth Eck- 
hart was subjected to all manner of petty 
annoyances and persecutions at the hands of 
the ecclesiastical rulers of the dioceses of 
Strasburg and Koln. In spite of these he 
persevered in his work, and soon all over 
Germany, as well as the Rhineland, the pious 
associations which he formed covered the 
land like a network. He died before the 
Pope's Bull, which condemned some of his 
doctrines because they savoured of pantheism, 
reached him, having, in spite of many mis- 
takes and much shortcoming in doctrinal 
teaching, served to quicken powerfully the 
spiritual life of the people, and set in motion 
a religious revival which did not ran its course 
until it was swallowed up in the great Refor- 
mation. 

THOMAS H. UNDSAY. 

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THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



I.— HOME NOTES. 

** OPPOSITIONS OF SCIEKCE/' 

'PJUC chair of the British Association for the Ad- 
Taacement of Science is undoubtedly one of the 
iotellectoal thrones of the country ; and the speech 
ot so able « man as Professor Tyndall from such a 
timne commands so wide attention that eves now, 
after more thou a month's interval, the echoes have 
scarce died away. But it has been fairly qaestioned 
whether it really was a kingly speech after aSL He 
claimed that the materialisdc philosophy was old and 
■nnenUs, though it was within the last twen^ years 
that it ha4 made its greatest advances and secured its 
place oi tapnmacy. Darwin had given such prooft 
of the law of evolution, bad so clearly and beantlfiilly 
established the power of organized matter to improve 
itsdf, both in the vegetable and libit animal wivld, 
that the old theories of cosmogony and creation had 
been iqnet for efer, and all miUassed men wete now 
oonstndned to believe that evea. the highest organ- 
ism^ indoding man and his brain, had been slowly 
adf-evtdved from Ampler forms. Going back from 
the seen to the nnseen, going back along the line of 
iriiich a small part had been deared, he came to the 
beginning of Uiings, when the atoms of matter were 
coursing tfirongh space, looking out for their mates, 
looking ont for the comUnations of which they were 
capaUe. Here the question arose, Did matter derive 
its properties from a God, or were these properties 
self-eoosdtntedf as it were ? Professor Tyndall did 
not hestate to decide for the latter alternative. Thus, 
no penonal God being needed, it would follow that 
such a Being does not exist, at least there is no proof 
of his existence. The old argument for God's ex- 
istence, doived from design, is annulled, because 
instead of God adapting the structure of creatures to 
their mode of life, it is the mode of their life that has 
developed their structure. The immortality of the 
soul is clearly an impossibility, because there is no 
such thing as a soul, all our mental and spiritual 
operations being performed by the brain. Man is 
what he is, simply in virtue of his organizatioQ, and 
the environments by which he is surrounded. Religion 
is a very good thing— nay, there is a part of man's 
nature that craves something of the kind ; by all 
means, then, let that craving be gratified, but let the 
seat of religion be confined to the feelings, and let 
each age make its own religion. In short, let it be a 
kind of toy, with wliich those who like it may regale 
themselves ; but don't let it come into other spheres, 
and don't let it claim any authority over any other 
part of man. 

It has been pointed out, again and again, that while 
it is the peculiar boast of science that it deals only 
with facts, and the inductions to which these facts 
inevitably lead, there is an enormous amount of 
assmnption in all this reasoning. Admitting it to be 
established, that in matter there is a wonderfht power 

IV. N.S. 



of evolution, which has operated to a certain extent 
in produdag changes and improvements, there is no 
chain of evidence derived fhun facts that this alone 
has operated in forming the world. Tliongh we lee 
this law doing a Uttl^ we have no proof that it has 
done everything. The Ibs^ remains Qiat we possess 
do not proent us with diat series of gradual improve- 
ments in the same creature which we ooght to find if 
the monad developed- into .the man. We ought to 
find in nature something like what wa see in a 
museum, where all the steps in the process of making 
a pin, or a sted.pen, are qnread before us, from the 
rough piece of metal at the beginning to the finished 
article at the end. In point of fact^ we have nothing 
of the land. It is said that it would take about a 
milUon of years for a cat to develop into a dog. 
Surely, then, we ought to find fossils in abundance of 
creatures in wfaidi Qiis change has beoi gradual^ 
gfiSng on. But where are th^ ? Then there is the 
enormous difficult that at one time the earth was 
utterly unfit for organic life. It was, in fact, a red-hot 
mass. When and how did organic life begin F The 
amount of assumption involved in aiqr theory that 
makes evtdution supersede creaticm is astonishing. 
It ;i8 no wonder, therefbre, if men of saence in the 
more exact sense of the term dislike such theories. 
To socb minds they are not a help, but rather a hin- 
drance to true science. Evcdution is worthy of all 
respect as a subordinate ageitcy in the devdopment 
boUi of ammal and vegetable life. But as a snbsti- 
tote {or creation, and even for the Creator, it has no 
daim to respect Its advocates may imperiously 
claim for it this lofty place, but the very eagerness 
and -impetuosity with which they claim it throws a 
suspicion on their proceeding, being out of keeping 
wiOi that modesty of true science, which even in 
matters that have no moral or spiritual bearings, 
makes quite sure of its foundatioi^ before it over- 
turns the old notions of men. 

Some of Professor T'yndall's concessions are curious. 
As the inevitable result of his theory is to supersede 
God, and deny immortality, one would suppose that 
it left no sphere whatever for religion. But it seems 
that it is wise to recognise " the religiom of the world 
as the forms of a force, mischievous if permitted to 
intrude on the region of knowledge, over which it 
holds no command, but capable of being guided by 
liberal thought to noble issues in the region of emotion, 
which is its proper sphere." Now this is quite in 
accordance with Professor l^dall's theory of the 
value of prayer. Prayer is absurd if you think it 
a means of obtaining anything ; but prayer is beauti- 
ful and excellent as a means of exercising high and 
holy feelings. It does not seem to have occurred to 
him that such prayer b no prayer. Take away from 
prayer its value as a direct meaits of obtaining bless- 
ing, and you cut its roots altogether. Who would 
or could beseech anoOier behig for anything, just as a 
way of airing his fedings.' So widL-^digion in. 

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SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



(general. Deny its objective reality, and you destroy 
it. Make it a mere playground for the emotions, and 
you annihilate it. It is weak in Professor Tyndall to 
try and find a place for religion, when he has left 
none for God or for immortality. But the fact that 
he has been obliged to do so shows that even in his 
view the religious sentiment cannot be put down. 
Why then not frankly recognise that religion has its 
own grounds and evidences, and has a place in the 
sphere of knowledge, recognised and commanding, 
as well as in that of emotion ? 

The fuU establishment of evolution, if it really were 
a Ectentific doctrine, would obviously consume genera- 
tions. To place the antiquity of man, for example, 
on a basis of unquestionable fact, would evidently 
require investigations reaching beyond the limit of 
any life. Are we to wait till such inquiries are com- 
plcted, but meanwhile suspend our belief in God aod 
in Christ ? In every sense it must be wiser to judge 
the truth of ChrisUanity from its own proper evidence. 
The claim of Christianity rests on facts done in open 
day eighteen hundred years ago. The claim of evo- 
lution rests on unseen facts alleged to have taken 
place perhaps eighteen hundred miWons of years ago. 
Are we to wait till the latter be establLshed before we 
believe the former ? More rational, surelj', in every 
sense to accept of the former on their own evidence, 
and let our men of science take their own time to 
throw on the latter what light they can. 

CHRISHAM COSFERENCES AND COHGKESSBS. 
It certainly does not aj^Kar, &mi the popular 
religions gathering* so common at this season, that 
the friends of religion are disposed to limit its sphere 
and influence as Professor Tyndall' would advise. 
Here, for example, is tbe acc(Hint of a reooarkable 
ught days' meeting at Oxford, at which Mr. PearsaU 
Smith is the rating spirit; and if there be cme feature 
more characteristic of tUi and similaE meetings than 
another, it is confidence in the tmths rdigion as 
realitiei, and the earnest puipose to act on them as 
toch. Instead of a m«e sstof gymnastic exercUes, 
that iroald he equally good whatAvsr were the objects 
of devotion, intenieconviction.cf the reality of God's 
Word, and intense desire to shape everytSdog by is 
the soul and sjurit of the eonfereace. Mr. Feanall 
Smith has <me eapecial aim, to conrioce Christiaas that 
much bicker attaiomeats ^aa the averago in holiness 
are practicable, and are to be reached by faith. It 
has been said by some that Ur. FeanaU Smith 
teaches a doctrine of perfecUgn; hot it does not 
appear from lus own expiUnatioos that he means to 
assert that perfection has ever been, attained, but only 
that there are such promises of holiness made to those 
who beUeve, such stores of strength for them in Christ, 
that if they would but believingly receive theae^ their 
attainments would be infinitely heightened. In short, 
what he would chiefly attadc b an easy-going feeling 
that even Christiaiis must sin a great deal, leading to 
a great want of effort to resist sin, making Christians 
to feel content with a great amount of indwelling cor- 
ruption, instead of taking hold of Christ for strength 



to give them the victory. It would appear that these 
meetings have made a large impression on Oxford, 
though it does not appear whether they have touched 
any of the class that are most naturally associated 
with that city of leamiog. Other conferences have 
been held : the usual one at FerUi, and a farewell con- 
ference at Inverness, in connection with the work of 
3ilr. Moody. Church congresses, discussing religious 
questions in the light of the more special duties of the 
Chorch, have also been held in various dioceses* 

THE ENGUSH PILGRIMAGE lb PONTIGNY. 

Grotesque interminglings of mediasvillism with the 
busy rushing about of the nineteenth century attract 
attention from their very singularity. The idea of a 
pilgrimage, led by English noblemen, to the tomb of 
an English ecclesiastic in France, but conducted, not 
hke the Pilgrimage to Canterbury in the days of 
Chaucer, but by the usual accommodation of Cooke's 
tickicts, has something in it so odd as to provoke a 
laugh at the very outscL Ardbbishop Manning en- 
deavoured to give dign^ to the nndestalung by 
dwelling on the- fact that Uie remains of St Edmond 
of Canterbury had been prueived from decay for six 
hundred years in their resting-place — a sing^ilax faot 
in which all, he thought, mast see the hand of God. 
The natural inference w«x, that in this pnserv;ttitMi 
there was something miraculoos, and we can easily 
see how such statements tend to encumber themirades 
of the Bible, by causing all to be shunped together 
into one mass of unnatural representations- It would 
appear, however, that the archbishop was not quite 
prf^ared to go this length. The newspapers have 
given ample reports of the pilgtimage and its strange 
combination of religi(His observances and railway 
incidents. At Pontigny, the part of the senice most 
cfaaiactivistic of the occasion* seems to ham consisted 
in the constant riogws of " O mi bcate Edmnndc." 
It might be all very weU to recall the holy lift, as it is. 
considered, oi one bdivved to have excelled his fel- 
lowa in the service of God. But in this paying of 
almost divine hoooox to a departed man, and sor- 
ronnding the serrioe with the most solemn observances 
of the ChoFch, we see the Romw tendsnoy to dti]^» 
ind to give to others the honour and glory whi ch me 
due only to One. The power of Rome to da»l>.and: 
delight the siensM aoldom ftUs to be shown on such 
occasioas, and seeoM to ham been fiiUy ea WM ted 
here. One caun^ but contrast the gorgeous gkxy 
with the simple statement of our Lord, "Crod-is » 
Spirit; and th^ that wqriliip Him most wQrsli4) ia 
s^rit and in troth." 

A BAIXOON EX^KDmON FROK FKABCS TO 
ENOLAMD. 

A few mornings ago th* inhabUanta of Grimshy wwc 
astonished by the arrival of a pair of travellers who, 
somewhat after- the manner of John Gilpin, had goaut 
furthor than they intended. It appears that an 
aercmapt had. announced his intention of ascending 
publicly from Calais in a balloon, and that a number 
of people had paid to see the sight. But the night 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



67 



■WM poagh and squally, and the wiad tmfimnintble, so 
-that the postponement of the expedition seemed in- 
«Tit*ble. The people, however, who had paid their 
money, thought otherwise, and insisted that theaerosaat 
should gothroogh the promised perfonnaace. Inaach 
a nighi the«»eiq>t to dotosenoed like certain death, 
bat he was stf stimg t/f the taoats of the people that he 
deterfflined to go. And go he did, along with his 
wife; swinging over the sea all night, they fband 
themselves at break of day ovec some fi^ung^macks, 
lowered tfhe machine, arid after much dtmger and 
traaUe»wei« atleagth tafeen on board 1^ one ofthetn. 
N«it morning they were brought to Grimsby, the 
baUoon having nished awqr to Nonray, nerar, -fm- 
bably» to ba-icebBgaii. 

WlutlMiettlladaeitooBnMnt fa tUs miMar is 
OivabgngfrfOMlKt of the'pei^le In inristkig flutt the 
aerounttlKMld, for their amosement, expoM himself 
to abnost certain death. It has baen coupled with the 
condoct of the old Ronunu^ who oaed to enjoy so 
much Qie spcnts of the ^adiifttei, nenr bcBtotring a 
thought on the amu whose anguish contributed to 
tbek amaiemBt Two things seem fiuly dedudble ; 
in Uie first ptae^ the hardening effects of public spec- 
tacles In whidi there is danger, on the htaiti of tiMse 
who witness (faem— the c<^ indiffBieBCe niikh pre- 
Tails BS to the hma thcgr bu^ do to the perfbrmers ; 
and -Mcond. the psinfol infioence of sticb perform- 
ances on tiie character of those engaged in them. 
Here was a man tempted almoat to throw avray his 
own fife, and Aat of lus wife, rather than incur the 
cesuaro of the ^peetatois. What other things pttUic 
{MribMMrs are often tempted to throw away, we 
need not {Wtictdarly specify ; bat the position of those 
who li^'e tO'^use the public is not an enviable one ; 
it is seildoa fuusoed without less of character, or at 
iaaat stbattsniptalim in tfeatadkeetian. 

POPtlRV AND Ttdtat UASONftV. 
No email interest has been, created in the un- 
expected resignation, by the Marqois R^w^, of >thc 
otbce of Grand Master of the Mason Lodge of 
England. The roslgnalion of what i» little more than 
an honorary efice of a somewhat showy kind, is of 
small consequence ; but the circumstances cooneeted 
with it are rather instructive. The Marquis, it 
afipvaa, has sccmtly gOoe over to the Ckurdi ol 
Rome, and that Churdv has always had » special dis- 
like to secret Societies, with the exception, of coarse, 
of that df ttie Jesints. It appears, tlien, that so soon 
as Lord R^ion became » member of that Church, it 
was signified to him that he most resign his office in 
the Mason's Lodge. The fact of his doing so is a 
proof of his submission to the behests of his Church. 
To most men, however, it will not appear obvious 
either why a masonic society is so obnoiioos to 
Rome, or why the rulers of the Romish Church 
should require such an act of submission on the part 
of the new member. It looks so like an act of eccle- 
dostical tyranny, and X.CH<d Ripon looks so soft and 
fofdish in, his sobnussion to it, that a vety keen criti- 
dam has been provoked) It nmst have been a severe 



ordeal for Lord Ripon, to t^e a step so openly that 
could not fail to draw down on faim the dlsapfvoval, 
if not the ridicule, of so many of his countiymen. 

ADDRESS TO THB ENGLISH BISHOPS. 

An address to the Bishops of England on the subject 
of the agitation for legalising the eastward position, and 
a distiootlveeudiartstic dress by ^e clergy while offici- 
ating at the administration of the Lord's Supper, has 
beenpnblished. Theaddres3,aspaUished,is5ubscribed 
by four eiJ-bshops, nine deans, five heads of colleges, 
and nearly two hundred archdeacons, cancms, preben- 
dariesi and Mhers. It sets forth that what is sought 
to hie attained, is -avowedly desired by tnioiy persons 
as at symbol of ft ytM&i^ sAd as daaighed to show 
that in tin comnmlM a lacdiee-ik offitted, ud that 
the offldallag ehrgjtoaa ncts-bs a priest hi oflMng 
-it. Such B vtew is stiOB^ deprecated by Oie snb- 
scribefB, who eipecl^y object that such doctrines 
oi^htnot to be incokiued bysyndlbols in a sen^e 
wWch fa intended to fiom * common grotmd wfaeretm 
all churdmen may meet In perfect dutiQ'. They 
signfiy that any legislation in the direction indicated 
woald be *' greatly deplored " by them. 

The passing of the recent Act for tin ngalatton- of 
worsUp in the Ckutch of England has been regarded 
urith very dtSferent fedin^ by the dlfib-ent pardes. 
For the most part it has been hailed by the Evan- 
gelical body as ft measm^ that will iterate in fevonr 
of thdr views. The High Church party view it with 
mptckui, not merely as liable to check the dewlop- 
ment of dieir system, but also as a fi«sh act of Etas- 
tianism— a fresh interference by the seadar power 
with Che st^titaal freedom of the Church. Some of 
their organs speak in the strongest terms about the 
probable consequences If the Act is to be morethnn 
a dead letter. They maintain that if it Interf^cj 
seriottsly with the developnoent of the worship Willi 
which they associate all that is most gf&rious in the 
privileges of the Church, it cannot fail to bring abou t 
disestablishment, and that at no 'diitant date. It 
remains now to be seen to what extent the Act will 
become the basis of ecclesiastical proceedings, and 
how far the bishops will make use of the discretionary 
power, in determining what questions are to be sub- 
mitted to trial, which has been conferred on them. 

CHURCH PATRONAGE. 
In the first Report of the Commission obtained by 
the Bishop of Peterborough for inquiring into the 
subject of Church patronage, in connection with the 
sale of advowsons and other abuses which have been 
extensively prevalent, the facts which are brought to 
light do not tend to allay the suspicions that prevaikd 
in regard to the extent of the evil. On the contrary, it 
would rather appear that in certain forms the buying 
and selling of Church appointments in one form or 
another has been on tlic increase. Particular dislike 
is shown to the proceedings of ecclesiastical agents, 
who have become, in reference to soch matters, what 
share and stock brokers are in the avowedly seeulaf 
sphere. The circalation[9^^(f ^dence must tend to 



68 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



ripen the subject is the potilic mind, but wbal steps 
may be proposed in regard to it is as yet unknown. 

II.— GLANCES ABROAD. 

FATHER HVACINTHB AND TBB GENEVA GOTEKN- 
UENT. 

The doqnent and emiest preadier has given up bis 
dia^ at Gcneta. He does not gtre hii reaaoos at 
much length. But it would appear diat he did not 
fed himseli in sympathy either irith the Government 
ot with the peo^e. He had aline of his own, andin 
that line it was not his part to destroy, bat rather to 
seek to reform the Churdi of Rome. It would ap- 
pear that some men were impatient of his attitude 
and his aim. Hyacinthe has always said that he 
would not voluntarily leave the Church of Rome. 
And he has always been marked by a very high tone 
in pleading for the authority of' the Bible, the purity 
of the family, and the sanctity of the Sabbath, What 
he may do now does not as yet appear. There seems 
to be a surmise that he finds the Alt-Catholics too 
rationalistic for him. The Alt-Catholics seem to 
consist of two classes : men like Hyacinthe and 
Reinkens, who really value the Bible, and desire 
above all things to see its authority established ; and 
men with rationalistic tendencies, who have little 
disposition towards dogmatic belief. The presence 
of this last mil be a drag on the former, and a hin- 
drance to their progress. It is to be feared that tl will 
prevent the Alt-Catholic movement from producing 
any decided effects. The hope one would have of 
the earnest Alt-Catholics is, that thty would advance 
towards Protestant positions in doctrine and otherwise, 
mi they do this, they will have but a feeble position, 
and be little able to maintain their ground. The 
alliances which they contemplate would not greatly 
benefit them, though they might make it easier for 
them to maintain a separate position. The Church 
of Rome has always shown sach skill in dealing with 
small bodies of mdcontents, has so well watched ber 
opportunity either for winning them back or rooting 
them out, that the Alt-Catholics, as at present con- 
stituted, seem to stand a poor chance. The hope of 
a great inward reformation in the Church of Rome 
has often prevailed, from the days of the Council of 
Constance downward; but such an event has not 
taken pUce. And according to the view of many, 
the Scriptures teach QtaX the Church of Rome is not 
destined to reformation, but to destruction. 

PILGKIUAGBS IN BAVAKIA. 

The correspondent' of the JDaify Nems at Munich 
tells of the great popularity of pilgrimages amongthe 
Bavarian peasants, and the good effects on their 
health at all events which the journeys have : — 

" To-day several hundred pilgrims started at early 
morning for _ Maria-Eich (the Virgin's Oak), where 
there is an image of the Madonna, said to possess 
miraculous virtues. One hundred and sixty years 
ago there lived at Planegg, a short distance fiom 
Mari8>Eicb, a good little bov, named Franz ThaJ- 
mayer, the son of a blacksmitli. When eleven years 



old he purchased ol a wandering dealer a small 
earlhenware image of the ^ladonna for « couple of 
kreuzers, and being of a pious disposition he placed 
his tieasure in the hollow oi a large oak in the forest. 
Day after day he wandered to the shrine he had 
made, and said his I»*yers before it. After a -whSSs 
the peasants of the vicintty came to the <dd oak tree 
to pi ay before the image too, and then somebody 
placed a woodoi roof over the figure, and finally 
money enough was collected to build a little chapel, 
the centre of which was tlie great oak, and an ol<i 
hermit lived near by as the protector of the shrine. 
The great tree exists no longer, howler. The 
lightning struck it in 1805, ana then it was levelled 
with the roof of the chapel, and now the venerable 
trunk may be seen behind its protecting boards, 
which were placed there to prevent pilgrims chipping; 
the old tree to pieces. Whether any remarlublc 
cures have taken place at Maria*Eich I do not know. 
The shrine is a dtBlightfoI place, liowever, and thou- 
sands upon tliousands of Mnnidi citizens are attracted 
thither who would never leave their crowded place^i 
of business and labour unless Mother Church called 
them at times away on these pilgrimages. 

" I have wandered to many shrines in Bavaria, and 
have found the pilgrims perfectly honest in their 
belief of the efficacy of Uiese miraculous images. 
Not in all cases, however, are the oririnat(»s of the 
shrines so conscientious. A Grcnnan uteraiy gentle- 
man once told me that on travelling thron^h a Bava- 
rian forest he met with a very enterprising unkeeper, 
who had no compunctions of conscience as to how h-j 
made his money. Upon an elevation there stood ait 
isolated little church. 'What a pity,* exclaimed Un: 
hoat, 'that this church should sUnd there so use- 
lessly ; a capita] pilgrimage church could be made 
out of it.' My frtend looked inquiringly at his com- 
panion, and smiled. ■ Do yon think I would not be 
the man to put it through P ' inquired the innkeei>er. 
' If I had an inn ap there, I should not rest until I 
had found a miracle-working image for the church.' 

* But,' remarked ray friend, • how would yon get the 
woild to believe that it could accomplish miraculous 
things i" ' Oh, that is easy enough,' was the reply. 

* If the first step is successful, then the fatore is 
assured. People have an insatiable appetite for 

I miracles.' *And what is the first step?' 'That I 
. perform the first miracle myself,* was the cool answer, 
I 'then ascribe it to the image, and assure the world 
i that I believe in it. The belief in miracles is as 
j catching as gaping ; nobody can withstand it. As 
soon as the business is once a<going, then both the 
churdi and the inn would become real gold mines. 
Of the latter I could take care.* 

** But Bavarian images and churches of grace have 
nraally an interesting history. Bamberg lost a trea- 
sure of an image about two years ago, when the 
' Society of Mary ' at Schlesitz purchased a miracu- 
lous image of the Virgin which had become famous 
in Franconia as the * Bamberg Bnage of Grace.' The 
price paid for it was two Uiousand guldens, or about 
£1 75 sterling. It may now be seen in the Sladtkapelle 
at Schlesitz. The original owner of this image was an 
old woman at Bamberg, who was known in all the 
country round as the 'Mullergottesdorle,' and dis- 
tributed the favours of the image at a florin per head 
to all comeis." 



THE SSDAK COIUIBUORATION. 

Many persons in other countries will be disposed to 
regret that the Germans have sucIl nuAimence 
to the ceIebrationD«fi1ili«ddi|^%pyii^^Et^ 



69 



natwil it may be to exult in the remembrance of 
nutww* triomph, and of the ntter humiliation of a 
great'enemy, it is not th« most magoanimons nor the 
most desirable course to nurse such feelings into fresh 
vigour and keenness. The triumph of the Germans 
has been so great that they might have dispensed 
' quite easily with an ^pointment which cannot fiul to 
I act as an exasperation to France. To fu, in this pj-t 
I of the vorld, it seems so desirable to let the keen 
' feelings between the two conntiies tone down, that 
' anything fitted to inflame them cannot but be viewed 
I regret Of conise, we remember how exultant 
I we used to be on the annhremries of Waterloo, and 
we know how eicited erea yet the people of Anierica 
become on the 4th of July ; therefore we cannot 
throw stones at onr neighbours. It must be ad- 
mitted, too, that in past years they have not been dis- 
{ posed to make very much of the day, and that they 
1 have this year received a provocation which has not 
unnaturally tended to increase their enthusiasm. This 
provocaticni has come in the fonn of a circular letter 
from Bishop Kelteler (of Mainz) to his dergy. Re- 
minding them that the 2nd of September was ccnning 
' round, he cautioned them against joining openly in 
any fettivaL He maintained that the triumph in Ger- 
masy had not been that ot the Gonum intioa as a 
wb<de, but of that put of the nation that was most 
butile to the Chiiitian Chordi, and most audoiu to 
oppnH and deitroy it. Catholics were thai Invited 
' to rejoice in their own ttiali. Men could not weep 
and rgoice together. CathoUc priests could not weep 
for thdr CJmrch and r^olce for their coontiy at one 
and the tame moment. Uriah the Hittite coold not 
go to his boose and eat and drink, when his fellow- 
soMloi were lying upon the earth. "The Chocch," 
nys the Kshop, " is grieroosly oppressed in many 
conntiiea in Earope* the Popt ii robbed of lui lands, 
five Gennan hbhops sit in prison, nai^ prieiti share 
die same (ate, or are exiled from flieir homes, all the 
members of CatboHc dobs are suspected of efforts dan- 
gerous to the State ; ereiyday brings us mw troubles, 
our hearts are bleeding, and can we celebrate the 
I feMtofjoy?" 

The Bishop hai not done mudi to serve bis cause 
by enoootapng his clergy to identify the triumph of 
the conntiy with the hnmiBation of the QMncb» and 
to regard the one as only an evil since it has been 
Allowed by tile other. On tlw contrary, the patriotism 
of Oiepeopk was all the more raosed, and the day of 
Sedan was celebrated widi a degree of enthusiasm 
iriuch &x exceeded any other commenwntiaa. 

THX ton ox THE BETIBK OBSKKTAHCB Ot 
amfDAT. 

Tile Pope does not seem to act spontaneously in 
such questions. First, the Government of Italy takes 
steps to soppresa servile work in Rome on Sundays, 
and then a deputation waits on the Pope to endeavour 
to secure his moral support. The Pope gives a cha- 
racteristic answer. The object is a good one. Fes- 
tival days ought to be observed better than they are. 
(He pnts the Sabbath in the same category with 



other festival days.) The Pharisaical hypocrisy in 
regard to the Sabbath, denounced by our Lord, had 
been succeeded by a laxity amounting to contempt. 
There were two motives for this. Some people 
woriced and made others work without thinking any- 
thing about the law, because their object was gain. 
But other persons wtxked on purpose to break the 
law. They were possessed l^a demoniac. spirit of 
impiety. They wished to do away with all religion. 
The "Pope has an unbounded belief in the depravity 
of human nature when it is not medicated by the 
Church of which he is the head. He becomes elo- 
quent and animated when delineating all Ac wicked- 
ness that is in the heart of man. He never ceases to 
see, in the treatment to which bis Church is snigected, 
the climax of that wickedness. Returning to the 
subject, however, he exhorted the deputation to per- 
severe in their holy enterprise. He besought them to 
do this as good sous of the Church, paying great 
heed to the mass, and other good things. They were 
not to heed the sneers and bnfiooneiy of the world. 
This last is a connsd which the Pope may well give, 
for he lias shown a sort of sublime im^erence to 
them himsdfi 

HL— THE MISSION FIELD. 

THE NATIVE CHURCH OF INDIA. 

The question is often turning op, What is the real 
condition of Indian converts 7 On the one hand, 
those who have no favour for missions are constantly 
ridiculing it, declaring that conversions so-called take 
place only from mercenary and worldly motives, and 
that the whole thing is a system of hypocrisy and 
delusion. This violent and irritating attack throws 
missionaries on the defensive, and disposes them to ' 
speak of the state of native converts gatienJiy in 
higher terms than they would use, if giving a direct 
historical statement 

Bat in the papers contributed by some of the mis- 
sionaries to the late Allahabad Conference, the utmost 
candour prevails. There is a frank confession that, 
as a whol^ the state of the native Church is not high, 
especially in the Mofussil, or country districts. Thus 
Dr. E. C. Scndder, at the American Reformed Church, 
gives the foDoving account of 

77u Condition ofifu People when they ^first mate 
AppluatioH. 

" Few, if any, of the people when they first come to 
OS and preaent tnemselves for Christian instruction, are 
fitted to receive ttie rite of baptism. They possess 
neither tiie knowledge nor the spirit leouisite ; iufrict 
their ideas upon the whole subject of Christianity and 
the value of the atonement are both meagre and inde- 
finite. It is a moDgrel mixture of faith and hope tliat 
influences many of them, — faith that Christianity is 
in all pmnta superior to the religions about them, and 
hope that it will faring them into a coiufition of pros- 
perity and inflnqice i^ovethat of their h«iAen neirii- 
bours. They are fully prepared to reject, but haroly 
know what tney are gomg to adopt. Whatever their 
motives for coming — and it is the univenal acknow- 
ledgment of the missionaries in Southern bidia that 
tfaoe is alwayi more or less of a^ux^ueji^n^^||^<^ 



TO 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



<lotni nance of ihc .«ec\lln.r— -tlic very tad ihaf they art 
mady to tulle the tirst slep is encourajpng, and inifii- 
ciently 60 to warrAnt Ulcir fecepEion. It it prcjtdratory 

10 the higher steps which lliey aTelayucccssivcly take, 
:uid wliieh we hope and believe will culminate in the 
highesf or n]!— biipfisrn ag<( admission into the Chtuch. 

11 places !bem in a position U> ■gain lhat knrwledgp 
whiclj, hy the Spirit of Gad^ will bring thfni into nn 
inteJJiflent and aersoual reUtion with Christ. The 
iJiaciplcs evideouy had a very indefinite idea, of Christ 
and his work whun fust called by Him, and it was not 
rill afisr long-cortimicd mBtruciioit and patient for- 
bearance widi (heir dulnts!: and hanlncss of heart on 
tke pan of the greit Htid biinsejf ; ia sIkwI, not till 
fciler his resurrectian, that they bega.n to coacave in 
its Ml force the nature of the religion they twd 
espOTised." 

Jt/r. VoMgfian's Testimony. 

Mr. Vdnghan, of Uie Chupcli MissknurTy Sociely, 
Cjilculti. ig equnlly candid : — 

""Were any one (hen (o ask me if I cDnsldirr the 
oarive Church in a pcctilini way dfeliaguished by thi^i 
fe^tore. 1 sfaouid awfili-er decidedJy no. \ believe ihi^ 
cbaractiiisLic is at n acnoijs diwotiut^ thit is, I con- 
sider that the great majority of our Ciitiiliaiis are 
praclicnily desUlnto of any zeal at all Jbr Uic spread of 
the gospel; I fear (here are muJtilifdes who, ditring 
the wliole of their Christian life, never spoke one ear- 
Dcsl word for Ckis(. Thia fact if, aad enough , no doubt ; 
but, Ihongh it does not console us, and ought not by 
any means to rccancile u? tfi the fact, still it cau- 
wrf be denied, (b-it the very same may be snid of (be 
great mass of profcsMng Chiiatiaos at home ; haidly 
one in a bundred ever thinks of putting forth active 
pcraonal eflbrl Cor the glory of God and the ejteusion 
ufhis kingdooL." 

Fiirtlier oa he givDs a narntive of the Kiistaniigur 
MabLebing, cspeciiiJly Co show Chat 

All is nol Galil that gimers, 

"Some thirty»ft¥e years ago, the PenlecMtal ' 
;^howeis — as they were then and long after ihought— 
visited that diatri'Cl. Whale families, yea, whole vii- 
lafies, came over to the truth, handreds upoa huEdreds 
iloclicd to the mission.itiea demandiag admission to 
the fold of Cbtist, Station alter station sprung into 
bem^, chutches pointed thcirspires heavenward \riicre 
Only idol temples had been seen bftftire ; schools with 
hvadredii' of bright young faces began to abound. 
Gradually a Christian population of isome live thou- 
&jnd was scattered over the disldct, ministered to by 
fiveor six European nussioaaiies. From (inic to Utne 
strangers viMted the scene of the wondrous revival, 
and went away rejoidtig at the toEicns of good -which 
ttcy heheid. Churcbea filled with BenEflli Ryols 
Bciinovriedcinf the one saving- Name, schools filled 
M-itli cleanly, well-dressed, well-fed children, were 
fcniutea vhicb could not but evoke freJiogs of joyatid 
thonkfnlQe^ in, ChrisLiaa he;trt. But, mo&t Imiy 
it auy be said sn TnisBionary as wcU as. otlter raattpre, 
'AH ii not gold that gliltersL' Pleasing as the scene 
W4a to behold, there was unsoundness wilhiti. The 
whole (hing was like a huge Chri^tmas-iree, hung 
around -wiih fniil nhich has not grown ou( of it, antt 
lias ho natunU conneciipn -with it. There-ftas a pain- 
lul unreaiiiy about the whole state of things. The 
enthusio^ni of the Chri.^dan spectator mn^t, in sonic 
measure, have ctfoled had be known that the wclJ-lilkd 
church depended tjuile ai much upon lirultiras sjiiri- 
tuAlcoa<LaeT&tioRS,that almost ^vexyivorsbipper looked 



In the AckJ of tlie mbiioHaTy «« irell n to Ata 

thit the prevailing cry was 'that of the- ItOrSevI 
' Gtvi; f tiive ! ' He would mureover, tloubtlc^a, 
been lews chaimed witli the siglit ol huudred* of 
] and wcil.Jrfcsed children in ihe schools, had he 
told tliat they were ei-cry otie fed and cJothec 
taoeht at Ihe (spente of the Soriety, whihi 
p;irenu clumed ihi? as a ris;ht, not by ativ m&^ 
a favour. Yel sndi was the jictaal state" of Ui 
Each misiion-stalionreftcmbkd analmsliousc, an 
misiionary was the almoner, ft is supcfJliious ti 
that such a system cQuJtJ only eventuate in disnpr 
ment and failure. Snch has been the case. 
Christianity of Eh* people trained under Eb« m 
has necessarily been dwarffel and defomiMi. 1 
no ^i.bofu CTcn n-faerc it is more th«n noraiaal 

But lAtrt ii JONia GoiJ. 

"Itt the ChuRh of Bugai tliare are bright 
edifying initanceB, not a few, of those why e 
earnest £e.il for the tnuniph of Christ' j ctusc. l^ 
paint to native brcthfen who, in a most laud.iblc 
ny their pen. or by [heir purse, or hy Ihcir preac] 
strii'c Co futlber the glorious end wa have in riev 
CouM leli oi' thojpiuoL paid ageuU. mind you) 
speak of Chtiat in. the &lirhp, in the oHicl-. wJich \ 
ing by the way j ivho, n hen w^ttry with tlieir i 
Work, stand up in roinc chiipi:], ijt it the com i 
aome street, to protUim the glad tidings of sa\v.\ 
I could point to arte and .irroCher. who, instead ol 
voting llicir vacations lo rest and recrentionj 
elected devote the timu to :;rduaus tourB of prt 
ing in the country towns and villagea. These Ua 
to the more educated cl jss of our people ; but lefi 
ing insUnccs of a siniilar sjiirit amongst our ]k 
and 1 eat- educated memben are not wanting. I e 
ialioduce you, brcthien, to an old blind man w 
genial pictyand burning Mil for the salvation off 
has been Ic tne s. delijjhtsoire study for flrieeii j 
past. Th.it aid sightless: behcvcr is never happv 
when he is doing something fot Christ'^ (jloiy;'] 
time to lime he fastens upon some dark soitJ, 
never tQliL:tes bis hold nnlil, by divine i;,face, he 
bcought that^oul into the mart'elliJUs light of the 
pel. He may well be called a father in ijiracl, fo 
my certain knowledge wdi-nigh twenty hnjiefnl 
veils may look up to him .'IS their spintual lather 
could tell, moreover, of a poar Bengali woman 
might irithout imptopricty be temicd a muthe 
Israel, ftlodeal, meek, and retiring, ihe shrinks I 
observation, but she tooloves towork lorttie ilailcr, 
it has. been her blesaed privilege to bring about a di 
of her benighted sisters (o the knowk-dge of the tr 
I could shgw yon a conTcrlcd scavenger, who, ' 
brpom and rake in faand^ dtflighled lo speak of ] 
wham Ids sDul loved, and who now rejoices ow 
or iii» breUiTG'il whoju he ha^ brought to the le^l 
Jesus." 

iSngfish Cmveris of Native /m trutrlars. 
>lrs. Mullens, tlie apostle of Zeuanu iVIissionj 
Bengal, was led to Christ by llie instructions of 
lamented Sujat AJi. JIajor Conran, who was al 
a quarter of a century in India, in his autobiogra: 
of an Indian olBccr, tlius writes of his own c 
version :— 

" I found among the Christian native* ft vital po 
of ttligioti, quito equal lo cope with myhostiJiti 
tmili, and, unh'ke^-s«y of my Cpuntrymen, they w 

''*'"j5r^,?ri?^.^'l?^'i!'^(?PC*'V^^ coodiiion of 
sour^'Jiiid4rt''^lVy'-a&|^^^ would 01 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



press home the most solemn truths vnlil nj conaoince 
becaioe xe-awakened and my refugea of liea wen 

scattered to the winds. I was compelled to own their 
superiority in this respect to my own venerated race 
and cotmtry, and I perctived Native Christian^ was 
a tree beatmg Irmt whose seed was in itself. Instead 
of coming to India, as I had fondly boasted, to 
enlighten the natives, I was there, on the very theatre 
of mv ancestors' renown for several gcneraliom past, 
of wtach I was proud to a degie^ leaniiag the first 
piiiiciplca of rel^on £rom the de8[nsed Bc^ati." 

It is freely acknowledged that oa the whole the 
Dative chmrches are not in a very satisfiutoiy state. 
If it be asked wbether as anie the native convwts 
are very aealoas for thecooveiwon of their brethren, 
the answer is Uiat they are not. They are not full of 
faith and hope, and all the graces of the go^el. But 
a cert^ proportion of them is in a different case. 
Even in vigorous congregations at home, it is but a 
select few that are of much use, working heartily for 
Christ. In the Indian congregaticms there are com- 
monly a few such, and through them it is expected 
that mnch wilPyet be done for Chriit. 

A Mtiieal Jiissumuy Agtmejf mai/ed. 

Dr. ValcDtisak of the Ututad Fttmbytama Minion, 
Jeypon, ^eaki straagly erf* die nni of a fbMale 
incdicaL missiaiway agaacj) 

*' I hare pmoaa^y come so KtOe in eontactwith 
the practical wokmg of this impottaat branch of 
Medical Missionary' labour, that I ^am unable to say 
anything about it, but I looh upon it as most im- 
p<Mant — relieiiug an amount of human sufieriBg tiuA 
ties beyond the reach of imy medical man, and 
bringing to a knowledge of the truth those wlu are 
literatly shot up from Mher forms of mission agency. 
I am afraid that for many year* to comewc mest look 
for our nipply of Feaude Medical Miasioaaiies to our 
versatile and enterprising American hrethreQ- Already 
they have made a noble beginning. I might almost 
say every misuonaiy in India wishes them ' God 
speed)* Nbt the least intereitiag paper at tbe nest 
MlsMs^ CoBfcsence^ be thet on * Female Medi- 
cal Jfiwou, their hiatoiyaBd wodcfor the laat tea 
yeets!* ByoneflfthMMlvesI" 

Dr. Seeddie bve a cordU tostimoBjp in their 
ftvonr : — 

"I am persuaded that these medical ladies are 
doing a great and good wtxk, bensMag not only the 
bodies tmt the aotus of their, patients. I hane made 
iwiuiEies in refereoce to tbetr wodb ««oa« diSerent 
miasiwiaiy bodies, and . find that they have visited 
lar^e numbers of houses and treated thousands of 
pMients during the past year. I bid Uiem God speed 
m thcit worit^ and hope that many moie vSl-eoaie." 

THC AiVAunnNa in cKUcmvA. 

In corroboration of what was stated on this subject 
in our last nutabcTi we subjoin on extract from a 
Calcutta letter, giriag an account of sonte of the 
meetings: — 

" Special services were held in Union Chapel^ the 
Wesleynii Chapel, and the London Mission Chapel 
at Hastings. It was very gratifying to see tlie large 
numbers vhteh anembkd every evening. I have 
heard more than, one minister puUidy confess that 



his feeUe faith was rebuked by As uae^MCtedly good 
atbendance and sustained ialevest of these meetiags. 
£ach evening those who were conconed about salva- 
tion were invited to remain a^er the general audi- 
ence had dispersed. At Union Chapel many did so 
who were manifestly aroused and deeply impressed 
by the trmtbs which had been earnestly and affec- | 
tionately urged on their considenUion. A number of : 
Christian friends individually gave ihem the guidance | 
and encouragement which their cases seemed to need. : 
At a meeting of those who had derived special 
benefit from the week's serriees at Union Cnapel, 
nearly a Iiimdred persons gave in their names as 
desirous to profess the i-ord Jesus ChriaL Last week 
special services were held every evening in the Circu- 
.lar Road and Lall Bazaar Baptist Cl^pels. As to 
results, the Rev. A. Williams says, '1 know of six- 
teen cases of what appear to be decided conversion, 
seme of these beiag very remaikable.' On Tuesday, 
the 23rd instant, a meeting of the pastors of native 
Christian churches was hud, and a plan for united 
weekly prayer-meetings, to be held in both the 
northern and southern parts of the city was adopted. 
Our native brethren propose to hold two or three 
socbmcctiagfweflUy fbPsoaM QMNMhs tQoaae." 

INVIDKL TEmEnCIK XSWtm VetaChTMBt RIHDO8. 

"We are all aware HaX in some of the places 
where we are called cm to labour, the ^tread of^ Eng- 
lish education has peoduced a complete revolution in 
the current of native thought with reCnence to Chris, 
tianity. Such is certainly the case with Madras. The 
objections brought forward Efteen or twenty years ago, 
are never heard now from educated young men. They 
have moved on into &r more difficult and dangerous 
lines of limueht. Tfie purest nnbelief, originated by 
those who an called plulosoptaers in Evk^, seems^ 
coming in like a flood onlndia. Our young mennow> 
carefully study the works of l^arwin, Huxl^, Hubert 
Spencer, Newman, Stuart Mill, and CMenso, and 
from such soutces draw their objections to Christianity. 
I have, ere now, been asked to get [hcmaks of 
Coknso, Mill, aaLd.Speocer, lot my Hindu friends in 
boxes of books from home. To my certain know- 
ledge, numbers of Hindus ate regular subscriben to 
Bradiaugh's NatioMot Reformer, and there are weddy 
meetings where this pubftcatira is regularly read and 
dis ca ss e d. Hie opmiMi is widely s^vsd, aoMOBg the 
beat edueatad Battrcs, that Chnstaagnty is an- anti^ 
quoted sapetstitioOi believed in by very few, even in 
England, who are well educated. Now this state of 
things must be met» not only by ourselves, but by our 
bast nottve h)3speK.**—&tv. George Mali, ofMaifos. 

lY.— MEMORIAL RECORD. 

U. CHUKOT. 

M. Guizac, after wawvMn^ atDst ef' hh eoalem- 
poiaties, has passed amq^ in UiidtMjHseradtii ysai; 
bn^ bet« bonatMI«ius>iB 1787. Of HagBsnot 
origiai he>waied«atedat<!iensmiiwhiClnrUsiB0tkep 
had fled from tlw Revoltition ; and toUsedoeatioii 
his ideas on maiq''i>oiats were trae to tiie last; fer 
he held faithftdly by the Cahniistic doctrines of 
the Refbnned Chmoh; and padups hit peedinr 
views of gowmneat, is -whioh' coBstilntienaliaas ma 
to be stiangely limited by aalhori^, took some 
tone from the fact that his &ther had perished 
on the seaffoid in 1794. At all events, be was an 
' OrleaaiBt,. and dnnag a long caxaer he acted as if 
Digitizea by \^ ■ , 



72 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



poliUcal safe^ to Fraoce lay with the Bourbons. His 
devotiott to them, howerari did not conflict with his 
power to do many services fbr Oie Rerormed Chordi 
of France, to which he was sincerdy attached. If it 
is true that, as a statesman, he was too deetrinairt, 
and as an historian too "pragmatic, "it cannot be 
doubted that he was an earnest Christian^ and that 
he was faithful to what he fek to be the welfare of 
F^'ance. During the varioos periods that the Boar* 
bons occupied the throne, he was a prominent person 
in the govenunent of his country. In 1814, he be- 
came Professor of Modem History at the Sorbonne, 
and, while still young received a seat in the cabinet. 
He was at one time Ambassador in England, at an- 
other Foreign Secretary, and various other high 
offices he at one time or other filled mth talent As 
an orator, he was perhaps too stately ; but he was 
never wanting in emergencies, for he was master of 
that calm scorn which is so often found adequate to 
quell unruly assemblies when eloquence itself may 
fail. That was surely a characteristic reply which on 
one occasion he made to his rerilers in the Chamber, 
who had been reproaching him : " You may heap 
insult upon insult, outrage upon outrage, but the pile 
can never reach the height of my contempt." 

His marriage, no doubt, did much to make more 
decided, if that were possible, his Orleanist pro- 
cEvities. The first Madame Guizot was a politician as 
well as story-writer ; and the way in which he was 
introduced to her reads like a page of romance. 
Mademoiselle Pauline de Meulan, the danghter of a 
distinguished family who had been ruined by the Revo- 
lution, found herself compelled for support to become 
editor of a journal caUed the PuhltcUte, which upheld 
the Bourbon interest. A serious malady, brought on 
by overwork, prostrated her. In the midst of her 
distress and dopair, she received an anonymous letter, 
in which, wlule she was urged to preserve her tran> 
quillity, an offer was made to perform her task daring 
her illness. The letter was accompanied by an article, 
its ideas and style so modelled on her own, that it 
was accepted and published ; and regularly similar 
contributions followed till she was better. She ear- 
nestly besought her benefactor to reveal himself: the 
incognito at last appeared; and before very long 
Mademoiselle de Meulan became Madame Guizot — 
to be the worthy helpmeet of her husband. After 
having made valued contributions to the literature of 
her country, she died in 1827. 

Though Gnizot's name will remain as that of a great 
statesman, his chief fame virill rest on his literary pro- 
ductions. He was ceaselessly busy, and when pohtical 
changes set him free, it was his dehght to retire to 
Richer, there to study and write, and indnlge his 
simple tastes. His great works are the " History of 
Civilisation in Europe," the ** History of the English 
Revolution," History of France," Mcditatinu on 
the Essence of the Christian Religion," and " Medita< 
tions upon the Actual State of the Christian Religion." 
In all of these we see the honest thinker, the true patriot, 
the humble Christian, and we are not onfrequently sur- 
prised at the calm way in which he diagnoses the 



diseases of his ooontry, and the straightforward way 
in which he eipresses his c<mviclions. T*his, for in- 
stance, ocean in his *< History of Fhmce : — 

" And still, after so many centuries of such a grand 
and brilliant career. France has not yet attained the 
end to which she ever aspired, to which ^ civilised 
communities aspire, and that is order in the midst of 
movement, security and liberty united and lasting. 
She has had shortcomings which have prevented her 
from reaping the full advantage of hti merits; she 
has committed faults which have involved her in 
reverses. Two things, essential to political prosperity 
amongst communities of men, have hitherto been to 
seek m her : predominance of puUic srarit over the 
spirit of caste or of profession, and moderation and 
fixity in respect of national ambiticoi both at home and 
abroad. !• ranee has been a victim to the personal 
passions of her chie& and to her own recUess change* 
ability." 

France will miss the presence of the thoughtful, 
good old man, whose aims were never selfish or un- 
patriotic, though he may sometimes have judged 
wrongly ; and the Cluistian world wjjl mourn him, 
for it was his delight to hear of Christian work and 
progress. His influence did more than that of any 
one else to save his churcli from the worst evils of 
Socinianism, and his country from those of Romanism, 
notwithstanding that at one time he somewhat^ un- 
advisedly argued in favour of the temporal sovereignty 
of the Pope — one of several points in which it was 
difficult for Englishmen to sympathize with him. 

The thinning of the ranks is ever going on. 
Bishop Suhhek, who for a period of almost unpre- 
cedented length, filled the see of Winchester (retiring 
in 1869), had so dropped out of the public view that 
many had ceased to think of him as living, and the 
calm departure of the good old man, who had already 
rested for some years from his labours, seemed like 
the death of a patriarch who had been left among us 
from a much earlier age. The American Episcopal 
Church has lost Dr.WHiTBHOUSE, Bishop of Illinois, 
a man of learning, a classical scholar, an accom- 
plished linguist, and an eloquent preacher. Dr. 
Whitebouse, at the request of the Archbishop of 
Canterbury, preached in 1867 at the opening of the 
Pan-AngUcan Synod, and was honoured by receiving 
the degree of LL.D. both from Cambridge and Ox- 
ford. The Rev. H. W. Pabkinson, of Rochdale, 
has been summoned at an early age from labours of 
great usefulness. His "Three Ways of Spending 
Sunday " and his " Wees of the Day " are the writings 
of one who knew what was needed— eminently prac- 
tical in his view of what was good for the time, and 
of the way of reaching the people around him. The 
Vvaa of the Day " were delivered as lectures to 
the working classes, and were eminently snccessful. 
The connection of Mr. Ch&kles (tIipin with efforts 
against shvoy, with the Peace Society, and all other 
objects of philantluopy usually promoted \xf the 
Society of friends and those who share their aims, 
entitles him .to a word of remembrance. May the 
service of God, in all its departments, have many 
recnuts to take the place of suchiifiinL I 
Digitized by VsjOOQLC 



BESSY WELLS. 



73 



BESSY WELLS. 



By Hss. HENRT "WOOD, Adthok op "East Ltnne," "Oswald Cut/' ktc. 



■CHAPTER IV. — AN 



IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. 

E S S Y 
did not 
meet 
any one 
con- 
nected 
with the 




with a heap of others, splashing through the 
wet of the broad gutter and the street refuse. 
Her dirty pinafore was in rags, her shoes had 
the toes sticking out, her hair was matted, her 
lace dirty. . Evidently she was noi smartened 
up to go off pleasurmg to the fields in a van. 
Bessy's heart sank within her. 

" Oh, it was all a flam ; mother had only 
said it to get rid of them ' because they 
bothered her ; they were not going again to 
the fields at all afore next year," carelessly 
called out Ann Simmett in answer to Bessy's 
scarcely-breathed word of inquiry. And Bessy, 
in her bitter disappointment, burst into tears. 

" Why, bless me, is the girl a taking it to 
heart Hke that?" exclaimed Mrs. Simmett 
from the door of the shed, where she stood 
regarding Bessy. " And to dress yourself 
up like that— a bonnet and all ! What a 
goose you must be, Bessy Wells !" 

" I — if you please, it was the thought of 
seeing the green fields," meekly stammered 
Bessy, feeling ashamed of herself, and trying 
to dr^ her eyes. Mother used to tell me 
about them." 

The hard, coarse life, that the people 
living in these miserable districts of neces- 
sity lead, tends to deaden the feelings. But 
a gleam of pity did float into Mis. Simmett's 

IV. H.S. 



mind then; nay, of sympathy; for she re- 
membered the early time when she had 
loved green fields herself Perhaps it was 
called up by the grievous look of disappoint- 
ment on Bessy's wan face, or perhaps by the 
allusion to her dead mother. 

"Why don't you go and see the green 
fields, diild?" she asked. "Do you mean 
to say you've never seen any?" 
" No, ma'am ; never." 
"Well, you can soon see 'em. There's 
grass enough within reach, without junketing 
off in pleasuring-vans to get to it. Go to 
one o'the grand parks. It's not over far — 
close by, so to say." 

"And — are flowers there too; buttercups 
I and daisies ?" asked Bessy. 

"Why, the grass is full of *em, child ; and 
there's better flowers than that — roses and 
lilies, and all kinds o'beautifiil sorts. And 
there's grand ladies and gentlemen a riding 
up and down there in their carriages." 

A woman, standing just inside the shed, 
picking potatoes out of a bin, had paused in 
her occupation and turned 'round to look at 
Bessy. 

"Have that there child never seen no 
fields!" she exclaimed in an accent of sur- 
prise. 

" Well, I suppose not," said Mrs. Simmett, 
lowering her voice to answer. " What with 
her lame leg, and what with her mother's 
rheumatis, which rasLde her no better nor a 
cripple, the child has never, as I b'lieve, been 
out o' this precious close, smoky place. One 
can't wonder that she frants to look a bit 
about her elsewhere." 

The woman, who was a stranger and had 
but just come to live in Dart Street, dropped 
another potato into the scale, and then 
glanced again at Bessy. 

" What, never been away at all fi^m these 
here courts and alleys ?" she rejoined. 

" Never once, I lancy," replied Mrs. Sim- 
mett " The father haven't troubled to take 
her, and the mother couldn't ; and she's too 
timid to stray off by herself. They've kept 
her mostly in-doors ; she's but a poor little 
heathen as to the world outside on't." 

" Well, I never heard of such a case," con- 
cluded the woman. " Just weigh these here 
taters." 

Bessy had partly caught the conversation. 
She scarcely underst^g^,^^ g^vSSfO^^le 



74 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



seemed to reflect on her for not having seen 
and learnt more ; and she felt ashamed to be 
so ignorant — so much behind other people. 
As Mrs. Simmett turned round from weighing 
the potatoes, she was again struck with the 
wan, eager, up-turned face, silently appealing 
to her sympathies £rom its very helplessness. 

" Look here," said she, to the group of 
ragged childKn gathered round, a thought 
occurring to her. " Some of you be off to 
one o* them there parks, and Bessy Wells 
can go along o' you. It's a pity the child 
shouldn't see the green grass for (Hice, iU* she's 
hankering for't — and now that she've tidied 
herself up, and all. Our Aim shall go too. 
Here, Ann I" 

Ann Simmett; at p]a,y still, shrieking and 
Uuighing, came splasmag through the gutter 
at her mother's sharp call. 'Diere was no 
need to urge them to the expedition. These 
children were only too eager to enter on any 
course that brought theni change, especially 
if it took them aw.ay from home. 

With a shout and clatter, hardly waiting 
to comprehend Mrs. Simmett's views, they 
all, more than a dozen of them, started away 
at once, tagged, untidy, half-naked as they 
were. Bessy and her crutch speeding nimbly 
with dien. No especial spot, or paili^ luid 
been indicated ^ and, if it had been, they 
might not ha.ve known the most direct road 
to it. Some of them bad a general idea that 
the parks hty westward, and ihey took what 
they fancied must be the rig^t direction. 

"They'll not get lost, will they now?" 
asked the woman, as she came out of the 
shed with the potatoes in her apron. She 
had no chikken of her own. 

" Lost ! " retorted Mrs. Simmett. « Not 
they. The police 'ud mighty soon bring 'em 
home again." 

. Hirough cross-cuts and by-streets went the 
company, until tbey emerged in the Strand. 
Bessy had kept up very well with them until 
then, but now she began to feel the keeping- 
up a difficult. As they turned in the direc- 
tion of Charing Cross, pushing Aemselves 
rudely and noisily against the passeogers 
that crowded the pavement, diving in and 
out amid the carriages in the road, and under 
the horses, Bessy looked after them in dis- 
may. They had crossed the street; Bessy 
contrived to fcrflow them, she did not know 
how. And indeed it was a marvel that some 
horse or carriage did not knock her down. 
Her hip and leg pained her, as they always 
did on any unusual exertion, and she already 
ielt fit to dtpp with fatigue. As to the rest, 
the more they pushed and incommoded 



people, the better they enjoyed it. Intent on 
this fun, and eager to reach the green fields 
themselves, they paid no heed to Bessy. 

"Oh please, please wait for me I" she 
called out pleadingly, when they were getting 
on far ahead. " Please don't leave me be- 
hind ! " 

Her voice was faint, and they did not hear 
it : it might have been all the same if they 
had heard. Onwards they went, and onwards 
limped Bessy, trying to keep them in view. 
Breathless with the speed, awfused with 
the noise and bustle of the streets, half sick 
with the intense heat, Bes^ began to wish 
she had not come. Her loDgii^ for the 
green fields was great, bat 3wr fii^^ie and 
conAision were greater. 

Farther and farther out ato the aodd went 
Bessy. The green fidds stemtA to fee very, 
very far off, but each minute Ac thought she 
must get to them the next; aad she never 
doubted that her compamoBs — out sight 
long ago — had already reacfaed them. She 
should find them sitting on tke gnus m die 
shade, picking the flower*. 

" If you please; ma'am," she tiaaidly asked 
of a woman who was standing at a street- 
comer, " is it far to the green fidds ?" 

The woman stared down at Beaqr as if she 
did not understand. She was not a pleasant- 
looking woman by any means— dirty, sla^ 
temly, bonnetless, with a white, unirtidiesome 
fiice i evidently a relation in ^nd to aame OC 
the women in Peter's Court 

" Up there," she said at last, m a thick, un- 
steady voice, pointing with her hand. 

Bessy and her crutch went on, taking the 
way indicated. Just as she began wondering 
how much farther she couid go, she foimd 
hersetf in tiie midst of a great busde j a worse 
bustle than any she had encountered in the 
streets. It was, in fact, Waterloo Railway 
Station. People and luggage jostled each 
other on platform, carriages of various 
kinds stood about She could not see any- 
thing of her companions; she coi^ not see 
any green fields. Pushed about, frightened, 
unable to stand or to walk longer, she sank 
down against die wall. Bat the next mo- 
ment a man, wheeltt^ before him a truck 
heaped up with boxes, sternly ordered her to 
get tip and go out of ^e way. 

She obeyed him instantly, getting away by 
the help of her crutch, but feeling every mo- 
ment that she must drop. Faint, weak, hot, 
terrified, utterly unable to think -^at to do, 
she looked up at the blue sky, as her mother 
had tai^t her, and asked God to be frteased 
to hdp and take care of her. Digitized by tj( 'O^ 



BESSY WELLS. 



75 



Just then she saw opposite to her a huge 
empty carriage, whose door stood open. 
Might she not be safe from the crowd there ? 
In the moment's impulse she got into it, shut 
the door after her, and lay down in the near 
comer under the seat. Poor Bessy had no 
idea that she was doing wrong in getting in, 
or that the caxriage was just going off on a 
jonmey. She only looked upon it as a tem- 
porary refiige from the tnrmoil outside, and 
she thought if she could lie at rest a little 
while, she should feel strong enough to get 
up again and fbUow her companions. She 
was too tired to move hand or foot : she lay 
perfectly motionless, save for her panting 
bread), eDjqjrirg the hixmy of the qmet and 
rest. 

Some dours were banged, one after the 
other. A man's head glanced in at this car- 
riage over the closed door ; but he did not see 
her, he supposed it to be emp^ ; and very 
gently the train moved out <k the station. 
The gentle movement did not much trouble 
Bessy ; she had been m a swing once in Dart 
Street, and she tiuni^ht this was like one ; but 
she was too exhausted to tlunk mudi, or to get 
up and look. A few minutes, and the poor 
tired child was asleep. 

"Why — what on earth ? Who are jmt P" 
The9ewords,in an exceedingly surprised and 
rather angry tone, awoke her. Bat how long 
afterwards it was, she never knew. At one 
of the stations down the line, where the trtnn 
stopped, the guard had opened the door to 
let in a third-class passenger, and now saw 
her. Bessy scrambled to her feet, and picked 
up her crutch. It was the same man who 
lad looked in before leaving Waterloo 
Station. 

"What on earth brings yon here?" de- 
manded the guard. " This here carnage was 
empty when we left. Have you got a 
ticket?" 

" Please, sir ? * was aU the answer ^e made 
in her mind's confusion. 

" Where are you going to ? " 

''Please, nr. I want to find the green 
fields." 

The guard muttered to himself that ^e 
must be a " bom natural." " Have you got a 
ticket ? " he repeated. 

"No, sir." And Bessy said it safely, though 
quite ignorant of what a tidcet was. " I've 
only my crutdL ar, and mr handker- 
chief." 

The gaaid frowned. "Where did yon get 
in?" 

"Idontknow.sii." 



" fVAy did you get in ? Come 1 No eva- 
sion." 

Bessy burst into tears. She saw she had 
done something wrong and felt sorry for it, 
for she was a most conscientious girl; and 
shewasnowthoroughlyfrightened, "Hie guard 
began to see that she was lame. 

" If yon please, sir," she sobbed, " the 
crowd pushed me, and I was afraid. I thought 
if I got IB here for a minute or two and lay 
down, it would rest me ; and then I suppose 
I went to sleep." 

" Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish 1 " cried 
the guard. ** Have you any money about you 
to pay for it ? " 

Bessy's eyes gazed at hhn in wide surprise 
through her tears at the question. " Oh no, 
sir ; I haven't any money." 

« Where do you live?" 

" jMeaae, sir, it's in Peter's Court. Mother's 
dead." 

"Peter's Court! That's in London, I 
suppose. Well, you'd better come out at 
once if you don't want to be carried farther 
away hom it Were you a boy, Vd have gave 
you a good entiling for ■wha.t you've done ; but 
as yon are a girl, and not a stiroag one, 1*11 
let you oS this time. But dim't you go and 
try on any such game as this again." 

He lifted her down, gave her her crutch, 
said a few words to one of the station porters, 
and went on with the trjun. Hie jKHter, who 
seemed a -very indifferent, stolid kind of man, 
pointed to Bessy die way out of the station, 
without spcal^ig. So there she was; she 
knew not iriiere, or how £ar from home and 
London ; and — vhae were her companions ? 

Bessy stood in the white dnaty road, and 
looked about her. VThicfa way was she to 
take ? The aftemooa snn was stiU burning 
fiercely, but getting lower m the She 
fdt stiff, and so tiied still as to befaardly able 
to stir ; but not quite so exhaiuted as when 
she liad got into die carriage. She was very 
hoBgry, too, having touched nodiing since 
her breakfast in the morning. And at that 
she had not eaten much ; she was too tuU of 
pleasiu-able evcttement 

Ah, how like this was to many of the days 
of life— to a type of life itself I The pleasure 
1^ had anttopUed so vividly had tained out 
nothing but pam. This red-lettw day (as it 
was to have been) was provi^ to be less 
good ibaa fliose usual days of hers that bad 
no {Measure in them. Bessy mi^t have 
taken it ss a lesson. This wwld has no 
perfect pleasure in it ; we must wait for that 
vax^ we get tt> that other world,^^^^has ta 
cam ha^Aet. Digitized by vjUOy 



76 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



CHAPTER V. — A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE. 

But which was the way to London ? Bessy 
Wells was walking as fast as her tired state 
allowed along the white road when the ques- 
tion flashed into her mind. Was she taking 
the way to it, or from it ? She never sup- 
posed but that she must walk back home : she 
had no other means of getting there : but she 
might be walking farther away from it. As 
she stood looking up and down the road, un- 
certain what to do, some children came up 
behind her : little girls with buff-coloured sun- 
boanets.and school-bags in their hands, re- 
turning from afternoon school. 

"Can you please to tell me which is the 
way to London ? " asked Bessy, as they were 
running past 

The biggest of them stared at Bessy, and 
then burst into a laugh, l^he question amused 
her. She would have thought it impossible 
that anybody did not know which was the 
road to London. 

" Here's a lame girl wants to know the way 
to London," she called out rudely to the rest. 
They laughed in answer ; but one of them, a 
pleasant-faced child, came running back. 

"That is the way to London," she said, 
pointing to the one they had come, the oppo- 
site one to which Bessy had been walking. 
" It's a good way off." 

" Thank you," said Bessy gratefully. And 
she and her crutch turned to pursue it, the 
little girls standing to stare after her. " What 
a good thing I asked ! " thought Bessy. 

To retrace her steps was weary work ; she 
had really come a good bit out of her road. 
Ere long she began to fear that she could not 
go on. The hot sun blazed down upon her 
head, for the high hedges on either side were 
no protection from it ; the white road sent up 
its glare and its dust to her face and eyes ; 
all the pain in her leg and hip had come back, 
and she was more faint than she had felt at 
all. No wonder : with the day's exertion and 
the day's fast. 

" If I could but get out of the sun, and rest 
again for a little while !" thought she. " And 
have a drink of water." 

The words were scarcely spoken when she 
came to a high dead wall, above which clus- 
tered a mass of tall trees. Bessy fell against 
it for rest. She would have liked to sit down ; 
but the road was so dusty, and she had her 
best frock on. The sun was on her face still. 

She looked about her as she stood leaning 
on her crutch. Handsome iron gates, stand- 
ing open, admitted to the interior ; spacious 
grounds surrounding, no doubt,a gentleman's 



mansion ; but the house was hidden by the 
towering trees and the thick shrubs. Bessy 
stood for some minutes looking in, yearning 
to be in the shade that the trees cast ; and 
then, in much hesitation, she ventured to 
enter. To the weary child it seemed like a 
very haven of peace and rest. 

Not up the broad, smooth, gravel path, but 
along the wide, bordering grass, under the 
trees, went she — onwards and onwards gently. 
Oh, how beautiful it was ! The trees, of many 
shapes and sizes and heights, shaded her 
from the sultry sun, the branches waved in 
the air, the birds sang in them, the fluttering 
leaves were green and lovely. She caught 
glimpses of a wide-spreading lawn, green and 
smooth as that she had seen in the picture 
years before. Lost in the relief afforded, she 
almost forgot to feel her fatigue and pain ; 
and she went unconsciously on and on, until 
she was at the other side, or back, of the 
mansion. And the view that burst upon her 
sight there, caused her to sink down in a 
trance of wonder and delight. 

Trees, far more beautiful, grew here : some 
of them seemed in flower, red and white. 
The expanse of the green grass lawn, sloping 
gently downwards, was level as a die. Shrubs 
of many shades were grouped upon and 
around it; flowers of the most enchanting 
shape and colour dotted it White, pmk, 
purple, yellow, violet, crimson — oh, more 
lovely shades and hues than Bessy had ever 
dreamt of! The sweet perfumes exhaled from , 
these flowers came wafted to her senses on ! 
the balmy air. What a contrast to the place | 
she lived in — the sickening sights and sounds ; 
and odours of Peter's Court I All along, at 
the foot of this sloping lawn, flowed a wide, j 
sparkling river ; boats of pleasure were sail- i 
ing on it. The blue sky was without a cloud, } 
the hot sun was hidden by the trees behind 
Bessy ; and she was at rest. 

" Is this heaven ? " wondered the child. 

In her inexperience she thought it must be ; 
or, rather, in her experience — the sad expe- 
rience of which her whole life had consbted, 
for she could only judge by that. Never had 
she imagined anything like this out of heaven. 
Half sitting, half lying against the trunk of 
one of the large trees, her crutch by her side, 
she gazed around her. 

It was not possible to see all things at 
once. Where everything is so strangely beau- 
tiful, the eyes are bewildered, and must needs 
linger. Presently she saw something else. A 
little lower down the lawn^^arer the.river, 

under the shadfr^^^niJ^S^eVKS^'® W^^e. 
whose gracefid branches swept almcw to the 



BESSY WELLS. 



77 



ground, sat a party round a table, that had a 
white cloth on it; a gentleman, two ladies, 
and a little girl in white, with blue ribbons in 
her fair hair. Glass and silver glittered on 
the table ; transparent cups and saucers stood 
on it ; luscious fruits, cakes, delicate slices of 
bread and butter. Bessy knew the rich ripe 
fruit to be strawbenies ; but oh I not such 
strawberries as were hawked about Dart Street 
in a barrow for sale, a halfpenny a leaf, small 
and pale. These strawberries were red and 
fresh, and very large. The ladies and gentle- 
man were talking and laughing in low, plea- 
sant, merry tones ; the litUe girl was gently 
swaying about a rose by its stem ; and Bessy, 
as she gazed at them, and at the shining ^ 
things on the white^vered table, wondered 
whether alt this could be real, or whether it 
was only a dream. 

All in a moment some divine instrument 
of music was softly touched, and a song rose 
on the air. At least to Bessy, poor child, 
it seemed divine. Looking round, she saw 
beyond the shrubs an open window of the 
house, through which the sounds came. Every 
word, spoken with remarkable distinctness by 
the singer, reached Bessy's ear, and told upon 
her heart 

" There if a Reaper, vrhoM name u Death, 
And, with his tickle keen. 
He the bearded grain at a breath, 
And the flowen that ^ow betweeo. 

" He J^ted at the flowen with tearful ej-es, 
He kit*ed their drooping loaves ; 
It was for the Lord of PatadiM 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

" ' My Lord ha« need of these flowereCs gay/ 
The Keiver uid, and smiled ; 
Dmf tokens of the eaitii are tbcjr. 
Where Ue was once a child. 

" And the nothcr ifBTC, in tears and pain, 
1 he floivers ihe most did iuve ; 
She knew sho should find them ^1 again 
In the fields irf li^t abow." 

One who had enjoyed better advantages 
than Bessy Wells might have recognised the 
words for verses culled from a poem written 
by a great American poet, and called " The 
Reaper and the Flowers." Bessy only knew 
that the words and the music, all in harmony 
with the strangely beautiful things around, 
seemed to strike her very heartstrings, and to 
call up feelings and thoughts that she had 
never in her whole previous life experienced. 
She trembled all over with a kind of nameless 
ecstasy ; tears filled her eyes. 

The little girl, who was about Bessy's age, 
came running up the lawn towards the house, 
calling out to the singer, her blue ribbons 
and her fair curls and her pretty white frock 
floating behind her as she ran. 



*' Rose, don't you M-ant any tea and straw- 
berries? Mamma says " 

And there the young lady, being just abreast 
of Bessy, caught sight of her. For a moment 
she stood still ; and then ran back, looking 
startled. 

" Oh, papa," she whispered in a tone of 
fear, " tlwre's some one so strange, sitting 
down there under the bees. Perhaps it may 
be a robber ! " 

"What do you say, Mina?" asked Mr. 
Stafford — for that was his name. And she 
repeated the words again, and pointed to the 
place. 

Mr. Stafford came forward. He might 
have expected to find some strong, burly 
man ; therefore, when he saw a poor little 
girl with a sad, wan, mild face, he was sur- 
prised. 

" Who are you ?"'he asked, standing before 
her, and spe:dcing gently ; for he had a kind 
heart: and there was tiiat in the child's 
aspect that would have told him she was a 
sufferer, aput from what the crutch, lying by, 
might have told. 

" Oh, if you please, sir, is this heaven ?" 
spoke Bessy, gazing up at him through her 
wet eyelashes. 

" Is it — what do you say, my little girl ?" 

" I think it must be heaven, sir." 

'* Why do you think that ?" returned Mr. 
Stafford, looking down at tiie curious little 
speaker with a half-smile. 

" Oh, sir, because of the big blue sky, and 
the trees, and the flowers, and all the green 
grass, and — and the singing. And there's 
the beautiful river, sir, running along there," 
she added, pointing to it. " Mother used to 
read to me about the beautiful cryst:^ river 
that would be in heaven ; and the trees to 
shade us, and the leaves to heal us, and the 
light and the flowers." 

" Is your mother outside?" he asked, in a 
tone of considerate kindness ; for the child's 
words impressed him favourably. 

" Mother's dead, sir. She died last winter." 

Mr. Stafford made no remark. He was 
looking at her. 

"/s it heaven, please, sir?" 

"This is not heaven, indeed, my little 
girl Nothing in this world is half so beau- 
tiful as heaven will be. Where do you 
come from ?" he continued. " What brings 
you here?" 

Bessy told her story. She was not shy 
when people spoke kindly to her: it was only 
of thejough rude men and women that she 
felt any fear. With her small, pale, weary 
facelifted to the gentleman's, 



73 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



very faint and low, for in truth stie was sadly 
exhausted, too much so to attiempt to rise 
\vhU« she spoke, she told him of the day's 
adventure. Of dressing herself in her best 
things, and comii^ from Peter's Court, ex- 
pecting to be taken to see the green fields 
and the daisies and buttercups and other 
flowers — ^just to see them once~-fUSt once. 
And of the disappmntmen^ and of the set- 
ting out with her companions aad losing 
them because thejr went so fiut; and <^ tiie 
getting into the laige carria^ out o( the wxy 
of the jostling crowd, and dropping arieep, 
and being brought, she knew not where, or 
how, far from home ; and of setting off to 
walk back to London, and of the &tiguc in 
the white, hot road, and of coming in at the 
open gates, to sit in the shade and rest 

" I didn't come in for harm, sir," resumed 
Besy at this juncture ; for by this time she 
began dimly to understand thai she bad had 
no right to intrude ; and onoe more the tears 
rolled down her cheeks. ** I'll go out again, 
sir, directly ; as soon as erer I can get 
and walk." 

"You are lame/' he oihserved, glancing 
at the crutch. 

" Oh yes, sir," she readily answered ; as if 
to be lame was, for her, a matter of course. 

" What have you had to eat since you left 
your home ?" he continued ; the peculiar 
friintness in the voice and the ezhaustei look 
in the face prompting the inquiry. 

I had a piece of bread and dripping, 
please, sir, for breakfast." 

" And nothing since ?'* 

" No, sir." 

" What is your name ?" 

" It's Bessy Wells, sir." 

She rose as she gave the answer, and took 
up her crutch to depart, fearing to offend if 
she stayed longer. *' I hope you'U please to 
look over it, sir," she said : " I didn't know 
it was any harm, or I'd not have come in." 

But Mr. Stafford, instead of letting her go, 
took her hand and led her to the table. 
There he put her to sit in a chair, saying a 
few words apart to the two ladies. He had 
quickly discerned that the stray child was at 
least honest and truthful, and superior to her 
apparent condition. 

" This poor little girl has come a great 
way, Mina : she is very tired and hungry," 
he observed to his young daughter. " Her 
name is Bessy, and I am sure she is a good 
girl. Shall we give her some of our tea ? " 

" Oh yes, papa," answered Mina ei^erly. 
She had soon found that the stranger did not 
look like a "robber." 



"What would you like best ?" asked Mrs. 
^afford, standing up by Bessy, and speaking 
as pleasantly as her husband had spoken. 
"Bread-and-butter? cake? biscuits? straw- 
benies ?^whicli will you have? I think 
bread-and-butter would be best to b^n with." 

" If I mi^ have a little water, please 
ma'am ?" Bessy ventured to suggest " I am 
so thinty." 

They gave her a cupful of milk-and'^rata-, 
and some of the nice-looking bivad-snd- 
bntter, and Mina put some strawberries on 
her plate. But, hungry though Bessy was, 
she coald not eat much ; the fkstiag had con- 
tinoed too long. As to the strawl^erries, 
they were more ddicious, both in themselves 
and to her parched mouth, than any fruit she 
had ever tasted, and she ate them all. Mr, 
and Mrs. Stafford talked to her between 
whiles. She answered their questions freely ; 
and by the time tea was over, they seemed to 
know as much of her affairs as she knew. A 
young lady, dressed as Mina was, but several 
yeacs older, had come forth from the house 
to listen and look. It was she who had sung 
the beautifhl soi^ 

Who is it that has brought you up and 
taught you ?" asked Mrs. Stafford. 

"It was mother, please, ma'am." 

" She seems to have done it very well. I 
think she must have been well brought up 
herself." 

" Oh yes, ma'am. Father and mother had 
seen better days." 

" It is a great pity your father cannot be 
in regular work," remarked Mrs. Stafford. 

Bessy made no answer. 1^ would not 
breathe a word in disparagement of her 
father. When questioned upon thft cause of 
their reduced condition, ^e had simply 
replied that her father was not always in work. 

" How old are you, Bessy?" 

** Twelve last Mardi, please, ma'am." 

The next thought that arose to Mr. and 
Mrs. Stafford was — ^what was to be done with 
her? how was she to be got home? Of 
course, she might be sent up by a return 
train ; but — what afterwards ? 

"When yovi get back to &e terminus, 
shall you know your way home ?" asked Mr. 
Stafford. 

" Back where, please, sir ? " 

" At the bustling place where you got into 
the carriage this morning. That was Water- 
loo Statical. Could you find your way home 
fi:om thence?" 

" Oh no, sir. I should have to ask in the 
street as I go along." 

Mr. Stafford was balancing a silver fork on 

n i ^i . i.. ,.i i ., , , CnnQy 



BESSY WiXLSi 



79 



bis finger and thinking. He suj^osed he 
should have to send a. servant with her, or 
take her himself. It was impossible to turn 
this poor child adrift in London to run the 
<^iance of being lost It might be dusk by 
the time she reached the tenninns; and 
besides, she ought not be able to walk from 
Ihence. 

** Do yon five fir 6:01a the {dace iriiere yoa 
Ibund i^ii^e m the caiiiage?'^ 
** Yes, sir, very fer.*" 

" Whereabouts in London kV&efs Court?" 

** I don't know, please, sir." 

*' Not know?" 
We go down Dart Street to sir." 

*• And where is Dart Street ?" 

" I can't tell, please, six-" 

" You say Peter's Caoct m very fat from 
the Waterloo Station ?* 

" Oh, a lon^ long way, sir^^sepfied Besiy, 
who h«i computed A* distance by her own 
fat^ne. '*I never enrid have tiumght all 
the world was so &r. I kept tinJdng I 
cottld not go OD any more. And the people 
pnabed me aad fii^eiMd ae. Please, sir, 
perhaps these «aA be so manyin the ittectB 
when I go back.** 

" I will take her myself," said Mr. Sbrfford 
to his wife, " And then I can see about that 
parcel which ou^t to have been sent yesteiv 
day from Waterloo Station." 

Mrs. Stafford called a servant, and bade 
her take the tittle girl in-doors to wash the 
dost her fice and hands. 

CHAPTER TI. — AN ACCmENT. 

Whkn Bessy tetmmd, her face iifcijIiiJ, 
Minawasrounof abost, ai^xig wnmmamtt 
flowos. BesB^adndferBiBsiailftijvdme 
to the zrrer aad look at it bcfeie Ae h»C 

sight (tf it ior good. 

Standing at Ae foot of the gaiden, shidded 
by the shrubs, she gazed at k in sflent 

delight The ripples shone and sparkled in 
the setting sunlight, the green banks and 
trees on either side the stream seemed fall of 
a sheltering peace that Bessy had never 
known, and only dreamt of as pertaiomg to 
heaven. The pretty boats glided past. From 
one of them there arose the melodious sounds 
of some sweet instrument, softly played. 

"Perhaps it is a harp?" thou^t Bessy. 
"There'll be harps in heaven." 

Still she looked and listened, leaning on 
her crutch. It seemed that she could not 
tear herself away. Nevermore in this world, 
as Bessy believed, should she see so beautiful 
a scene as that. The blue evening sky above, 
flecked with innumerable patches of gold ; 



the clear water winding on and on, with its 
look of calm peace, its, murmming softness, 
its smoothly gliding boats, and those strains 
of sweet music ! Tears, called up by feel- 
ings too deep to be understood or expressed, 
glistened on her eyelashes. 

" Can mother's river in heaven be better 
than this?" she asked herself in wonder. 
And trnlyy to the inexperienced giil ndio had 
encOBntoed nothing in her whole life but 
the bad air and iu sights and sounds of 
Peter's Court, it did seem that this pure, 
lovely spot was a very Paradise. 

Mr. Stafibrd ^nll^ lus* Xt wu- Unw to 
go out to catch the seat up Hwm Ifoa |ittt 
into her hand the fluwua Ackul tioA mp ; f»r 
which, and for afi ebe, "Btmf Wft&c a 1m 
simple thanks as wA m die ncir hmr^ 

LookiHg down «» Beaf, aa she inpcd 
along at his side b^oid of her crold tonwds 
the station, Mr. Sfafibrd coald bol fcd deep 
cso^nsfiiott for her. It h tme hr m mt 
reaUae in lus mind Ae oae half d Ac mmay 
of Peter's Court tJut die had had toexiat m 
from year's aid to year's end ; be «arid only 
partiaUyfiGtBre it *Bt for Ihc juiMii 
fife in hesfen, that Wmifter Aat has to 
eome, how woald the pom and wsetcfced Kve 
thioi^^ this life ?" sankiathoas^ "This 
diild, at least, has beta taoght to look fer 
that Life ; bat 1 tem few ot them, at a nde, 
are so taaj^** Amd Ms, Scafonft was rigbt. 

"Tov afc voy low, ad «» doaftc often 
m famf* fac obsarcd to ha. 

" fcs, » * shr inwiuiT, dufiag liqg^y 
op. '*]tiitl sMI aot be fane is keaven. 
I Mlalirafi bcasei^ km. IcoaJda't 
^|Mto thidk More «faat it woa tte.'" 

Mr. acaAinl nAa i w ad i i id at Ac coin- 
iMi— ti^xiiftjmmitm^ abefaad 
dniMil kli idfectkiaik 

"Wevr yoB bent bw^Mf liMlK clHid?'' 

*T1eaac^ sir, mo. Wlnle ma6m was 
in bed with a fever, a girl came in to nurse 
me, and she let me fall." 

A train came up. They got into it, and 
soon reached Waterloo Terminus. Mr. Staf- 
ford put the child into a Hansom cab, and 
stepped in himself. And then — and not until 
then — did it occur to him there might be a 
dilemma. 

"Do you know a place called Peter's 
Court ? " he asked of the driver. 

" No, sir ; never heaid of it. What district 
is it in ? " 

" I cannot tell you. This child — she has 
lost herself away from home, and I am going 
to take her back — says it opens out of a place 
calkd Dart Street." ^.^^^.^^ GoOgk 



8o 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



" Dart Street ! Peter's Court ! " repeated 
the man. " I'm sure I don't know where 
either of 'em is." ' 

Other cahmen did not know where : he 
inquired of all within hearing. At last one, 
who was driving out with a fare, caught the 
name. 

" Dart Street ! Oh, I know where that is," 
he said. " A regular low, wretched place, 
but honester than some such. It's not over 
far." And he gave the driver the necessary 
directions. 



Dart Street was generally in a commotion 
towards evening, when the men were at home 
congregating and smoking in the street, and 
the women turned out for air — and frequently 
to quarrel, and the children to fight. But on 
this particular evening the commotion was 
worse than usual — Bessy saw it at once. As 
to Mr. Stafford, he stared about from one 
side of the cab to the other, hardly liking to 
find himself and a cab in such a locality. 
Some imusual cause of excitement seemed to 
be stirring the populace. A great throng had 




Page 77. 



collected about the archway leading into 
Peter's Court : men, .women, and children 
had gathered there, and were elbowing one 

j another ; others were running up to join 

1 them. 

I " Take care ! take care ! " shouted the mob, 

j backing in various directions to make way 
for the cab — ^a very unusual sight in the nar- 
row street — and which had come driving 

' slowly down amid them. 

i "Whereabouts is Peter's Court?" asked 
the driver, of the people — who had taken 

I refuge against the walls of the houses on either 

I side. 



" Here. You be just at it. Up that there 
archway." 

Peter's Court, including its archway , had 
not been built for anything so large as a cab, 
only for individuals. The driver pulled up ; 
and Mr. Stafford got out to lift down Bessy 
and her crutch. 

" Do you know your way now ? " he asked 
her. 

" Oh yes, sir, Please, sir, this is home." 

But before the answer was quite spoken 
the neighbours had descried Bessy. They 
came pressing up with little regard to the 
obstructing cab and horse, and let loose their 



BESSY WELLS. 



8i 



toi^es upon her with one accord, shouting 
OQt some important news. It abnost ap- 
peued as though she were the object of 
their excitement The noise was too great 
for her to immediately understand what 
thejr said, but she caught its import all too 
soon. 

Roger Wells had met with a serious 
accident. He had been carried home half 
killed. 

Mr. Stafford had not intended to penetrate 
the unsavoury mysteries of Peter's Court; 
bat the sad distress of the trembling child — 
though with it all she was quiet — ^prompted 
him not to leave her to find her wa^ to her 
&ther alone and to the scene that mi^ht sur- 
round him. He had begun to feel an mterest 
in her, and for her sake decided to see what 
the calamity was ; and he followed her through 
the archway. 

Pale wiUi an inward dread never before 
experienced, her poor little hands shaking, 
Bessy guided Mr. Stafford to the right house, 
and up the old stairs, now crowd^ with 
people. On the low bedstead in the small 
gloomy, room, for it was now dusk, lay Roger . 
Wells, groaning with pain, his face white;, hb 
eyes closed, his frame perfectly stilL As 
many neigUiouis, men and women, as the 
room would hold, were collected in it. Mr. 
Stafford inquired particulars. 

It appeared that Wells had come home at 
seven o'clock, quite sober. Finding Bessy 
had not retiuned, he went to the green- 
grocery shed to see what time the pleasure 
party might be expected. There he found 
that the proposed jaunt had not taken place. 
It had been a mistake altogether ; no doubt, 
as he was told, an error of poor Bessy's 
imagination. Next he asked for Bessy, and 
heard the tidings they had to tell. Bessy 
was lost. The rest of the boys and girls, as 
Mrs. Simmett volubly explained, had got 
back during the afternoon, reporting that 
they had lost Bessy. What they said was 
that Bessy had lost them — had " gone away" 
from them in the street 

Rc^er Wells, who was really very fond of 
his afflicted child, though he did not show it 
much in his conduct, collected hastily what 
particulars he could, as to where she was 
missed, and then set off to apprize the police 
and to search for her himself, turning sharpty 
out of Dart Street at headlong speed. At 
that unlucky moment, a break with restive 
horses came dashing along, and somehow 
Wells was knocked down and run over. 
Certain denizens of the locality, following 
close at his heels, interested in the search for 



Bessy, picked Wells up and carried him to 
his room in Peter's Court. 

*' It would have been better to take him to 
the hospital ; he would have had the best of 
surgical skill there," observed Mr. Stafford, 
after listening to the tale. 

'* Oh please, please sir, don't send nir. to 
the hospital ! " burst forth Bessy, who had 
caught the words ; and in her grievous excite- 
ment of fear she fell at Mr. Stafford's feet 
and put her hands upon his knees. " Please 
let him stay here, sir! — ^please don't leave 
me all alone I I can nurse him. I nursed 
mother." 

Mr. Stafford saw her terror. She seemed 
to look upon hospitals as places to be dreaded 
like prisons, instead of what they really are — 
healing mansions, that are a boon to the sick 
and helpless. 

" Well, well, my little giri, we shall see," 
he said soothingly. " Has any doctor been 
here?" he inquired of those around. 

" No," was the answer he received. The 
doctor had been run for, but he had not yet 
come. 

Mr. Stafford looked grave, as if he scarcely 
knew what to be at. Doctors likely to attend 
Peter's Court must know there was but small 
chance receiving payment, and probably 
did not care to hurry themselves to any 
patient in it, however critical his state might 
be. Mr. Stafford's condition in life was so 
very different from that of the miserable 
people now around him, that some responsi- 
bility seemed to attach itself to him in this 
matter—and he felt it But for Bessy's im- 
ploring cry, he would have taken upon him- 
self to 'have Wells conveyed to the nearest 
hospital. Very considerably relieved he 
was to see, in the midst of his hesitation, 
a young man enter, who was evidently the 
doctor. 

"What's to do here?— who's hurt?" ex- 
claimed Mr. Whatley for that was his name, 
and he it was who had seen Mrs. Wells in 
her last illness. ** Is there such a thing as a 
candle in the place ? I should like to have 
it lighted if there is." 

Bessy alone knew where she kept the 
candle and candlestick. In spite of her dis- 
tress and fear, sIm did not lose her capa- 
city for usefufaiess, and she lighted it in a 
trice. 

The doctor then ordered the women to take 
her and themselves away while he examined 
Wells. He sent away most of the men also; a . 
decent man whom he knew a little of, Rich^uxt j 
Sale, and Mr. Stafford beii^ alon&permitted | 
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The first thing poor Bessy knew after that, 
as she sat below on the lowest stair, the con- 
gregated women around her keeping vp an 
incessant chattering, was that Richard Soie 
toudied her on the shonlder, and drew her 
into his room on the groiind-4oor. The raao 
was very different fixun the general men of 
Peter's Court; quiet, weU-oonducted, 
rior. He had known sonow in maay 
ways; had been reduced by sickness and 
misfortune to his present omdition. His 
wife and children h^ died, one after another; 
the last of them, a little bo^i only some three 
months ago. 

" It's not as bad as we feared, Bessy," be 
said cheerfully j " and he " 

*' Oh, and will he get well, please ?" isita- 
rupted Bessy, clasping her hands. 

" Yes, child, he'll get well ; and he is not 
to go to the hospital," added Richard Sale. 
" The gentleman and the doctor are talking 
togetho: about it up-stairs now. I heard the 
gentleman say that he would pay him ; and 
I told them how handy yon were in tiie way 
of nursing." 

" I should think no one was ever so 
good as that gentleman," cried Bessy breath- 
lessly. 

" He does seem good," assented Richard 
Sale. 

Mr. Stafford not only promised to pay the 
doctor ; he did more than that When he 
was sajring good-bye to Bessy, he put some 
money in her hand, and said he would come 
again in a few days. In fact, Mr. Stafford — 
brought thus into unexpected contact with 
this unwholesome place, Peter's Court, and 
widi the poor people passing their depress- 
ing existence within its precincts, and with 
this sad acddent that bad suddenly laid 
one of them helpless — felt his benevolence 
aroused, perhaps also somewhat of his 
conscience. 

It was impossible to help contrasting sug- 
gestively their lot with his own ; and he in- 
wardly resolved to, at least, see Roger Wells 
through his illness. Which of course meant 
supplying Bessy with money for necessaries 
during its duration. It seemed to be a duty 
thrown in his path. 

" Never to have had any other experience 
in life but what ^e has gathered in these 
stifling dens I" he exclaimed to himself his 
thou^ts nmning upon Bes^, as he was 
piloted back through crowded Dart Street in 
the cab which had waited for him. " Never 
to have seen the green fields, or to have 
tasted the fre^ pure country air !" 

That night Bessy Wells had a very pleasant 



but curious dxeara. A neigbboiuly wocoae, 
one Mutba Jones from a proximate room, 
came in to sit up with the sick man, for the 
pocH* are ever ready to help one another ; and 
poor, exfaawted Bessy fell asleep on her 
own tittle bed as soen as she k^ down. The 
dream was no doubt induced by her adven- 
tures that day, good and bad, and especially 
by the sight of the lovely spot tlut she had 
truly taken for heaven. 

She thought she saw on ^ aae hand the 
most beaatifai gardoa cmceivabk; move 
beautiful even than the one she had been in, 
for we sometimes behold things in dreams 
more vividly dian we can ever see them in 
this world in reality. The gran looked 
dazzlingly green, the flowers were of the 
richest colours, the trees seemed to be bow- 
ing their graceful branches. All round the 
grass flowed a silver river, on which floated 
golden boats containing people in white robes, 
who were singing melodiously. The blue 
sky overhead sparkled wkh innumerable stars : 
it was altogether most beautiful. On the 
other hand lay a wide, immense plain, dull and 
gloomy, and crowded with miserable people, 
just like those that crowded Peter's Court: 
indeed, Bessy thought she recognised some 
of the faces. They were dirty, and ragged 
^d wretched, and ill, and suffering; and 
they seemed to have no aim, no com&»t, no 
hope. 

Bessy's heart sunk as she looked at 
them. Oh, it was sad to see ! Where were 
they all going to, these poor hopeless people? 
and what was t» become of ^em ? All at 
once Bes^ discerned a figure in white, glo- 
riously radiant, stfuidmg on the green lawn, 
and looking over the river at them. His 
face was flill of compassion and sweetness ; 
his hair was encircled by a golden halo, and 
she seemed to know intuitively that it was 
Jesus Christ I am here to save them all," 
He said to her with a loving smile, in answer 
to her doubts ; " to save all who w^. If 
they but only look to me, I will save them." 
And Bessy's heart glowed within her at the 
words with a joyous glow that it would never 
experience in this life. He stood on the 
brmk, and stretched forth his hands to them 
invitingly, the same winning smile of c«nr 
passionate mercy turned on them from' his 
sweet face. Bessy burst into teara in her ex- 
citement ; she called out, *' Oh, look to Him ! 
look to Him ! he will save you." And just 
as she saw many of their heads beginning 
slowly to turn to Him in response to his 
invitation, she awoke. 

The actual tears wen^^i^i^^ggiy^ 



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THE PROPHETICAL BOOKS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 



cheeks. For some brief moments she coald 
not tell where she was, or what had hap- 
pened. Then she saw the candle and the room, 
snd Martha Jones dipping some rags m the 
cooling lotion to put on her fatiier's head ; 
and knew it had been bat a dream. 



''But, oh, I think it is true!" sa^d the 
little girl to hersdf, in a happy tremble of 
hope. Jesus will save us all if we look to 
Him — even us poor, poor people in Peter's 
Court j Faliier, and me, and Martha Jones, 
aad evoy cue of us." 



THE PROPHETICAL BOOKS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 



L — raTRODtlCTORV. 



IN the threefold division of the sacred 
books in the Jewish canon the second 
place is assigned to the prophets. Under 
this head are comprehended the historical 
books as well as those which are predictive ; 
so that the inophetical writings have to be 
divided into two classes — the prophetical his- 
torical books {prophetee priores) and the 
prophetical predictive books {praphda pos- 
teriores), both being composed by men be- 
longing to the class of prophets, who were the 
literary men of the nation. It is with the 
latter of these alone that we are at present con- 
cerned. To this class belong the three greater 
prophets, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, and 
the twelve minor prophets, Hosea, Joel, Amos, 
Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, 
Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi. 
Braides these there is the Book of Daniel, 
which, though placed among the Ket&bim or 
Hagi(^;rapha in the Hebrew canon, is in fhe 
UUC and the Vulgate ranked after the Book 
of Ezekiel, and properly belongs to the pro- 
phetical books. 

Before entering on the consideration of 
the separate prophetical books, it may be of 
advantage to take a survey of prophetism 
among the Hebrews in general. 

The ancient Israel sustained a twofold 
character: it was a national organization, and 
it was the symbol of a spiritual institute. 
To these two the law and the prophets had 
especial relation respectively ; by ttie law the 
national organization as a theocracy was 
constituted and regulated; by the prophets 
the spiritual aspect of the theocracy was pro- 
minently presented, the spiritual needs the 
people cared for, and the spiritual life of the 
community sustained. Whilst on the king 
and the priest devolved the task of seeing 
that the ceremonial and political ordinances 
of the law were carried out and obeyed, to 
the prophet belonged the duty especially of 
directing the thoughts of the people to the 
higher conception of their relation to God as 
his creatures, and ui^ng upon them that 



spiritual worship and internal sanctity which 
alone are acceptable to Him, Hence it is 
chiefly on moral and spiritual themes that 
th^ dilate in tiieir writings; on tiie diaracter, 
claims, and progress of the kin^^om of God 
amongst men, on the evils of sin as a nawral 
offei^ce, and the excellencies and advantages 
of righteousness and moral purity to nations 
and individuals. They ever dso direct their 
glance forward to the ^vent of Him in whom 
all righteousness was to be perfected, and by 
whom the kingdom of God in its spirituiil 
aspect was to be finally established on the 
earth. Prophecy is thus the companion and 
complement of the law and the preparation 
for the gospel. The prophets were a succes- 
sion or order of men, oiganically united and 
acting in unison, " who, capadtated and en- 
dowed by a special spiritual gift, exerted on 
the theocracy an extraordinary, vitalising, 
creative activity, and tiirongh special divinely 
effected insight into Ae essence and object 
of die divine counsel announced thb, and led 
on the people to its realisation." * 

The special function of the prophet under 
the ancient dispensation may be learned 
from what God said to the Israelites through 
Moses : " I will raise them up a prophet from 
amongst their brethren like unto thee, and I 
will put my words in his mouth, and he shall 
speak unto them all that I shall command 
him. And it shall come to pass that whoso- 
ever will not hearken to my words which he 
shall speak in my name, I will require it of 
him." God then, after denouncing condign 
punishment on all who should presume to 
speak as a pro|:Aet in fte name of God, 
though not commissioned by Him so to 
speak, as well as on all those who should 
speak in the name of other gods, proceeds to 
furnish a criterion or test by which the people 
might determine whether any professing to 
speak in God's name was a true prophet or 
not. " When," says He, " a prophet speaketh 
in the name of the Lord, if the thine follow 



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not uor come to pass, that is the thing which 
the Lord bath not spoken, but the prophet 
hath spoken presumptuously ; thou shalt not 
be afraid of him " (Deut. xviii. i8 — 22). 
From this passage it is clear that the main 
function of the prophet vas to speak to the 
people in the name of the Lord such words 
as God had commissioned him to speak. For 
our present purpose it is not necessary to in- 
quire whether the passage refers to the series 
of prophets whom God was to raise up and 
send to his people, or is a promise of the one 
great Prophet who was " in the fulness of 
time " to appear as God's messenger to Israel 
I believe it is the latter as inclusive of the for- 
mer, but this matters not at present ; in either 
case we have in the words of God himself a 
definition of the true idea, functions, and 
claims of a prophet. Israel, the covenant 
people of God, his inheritance, and the sub- 
jects of his theocratic rule, could not be left 
without spedal communications to them of 
his will; and as they could not endure to 
hear Him speaking to them as He spoke to 
them from Sinai, it was necessary that men 
like Moses should be raised up to whom He 
might convey what He willed the people to 
be told This did not necessarily include in 
every case the prediction of future events. 
Still, from the test which God gave the people 
by which the pretensions of any one claimmg 
to be a prophet were to be tri^, it is evident 
that the ability to.predict what was future was 
an indispensable quali^ of the true prophet 
Whilst the heathen used all manner of sorcery 
and soothsaying to find signs of the divine 
will and to discover what might lie in the 
undeveloped future, Israel was to be pri- 
vileged to know what God saw meet they 
should know of these by an express message 
in words through his prophets. As Balaam, 
when under divine inspiration, said, " There 
is no enchantment in Israel, and no divina- 
tion in Jacob : at the time " (or in due time) 
" it shall be spoken to Israel and Jacob what 
God doth."* God, therefore, was pleased to 
raise up a succession of men to whom He 
revealed his will that they might convey it 
to the people, and to whom He gave the 
power of foreseeing and foretelling future 
events, as at once part of what He would 
have them to communicate, and that by which 
their claims to the prophetic oiEce were to 
be tested and proved. 

The name properly designative of such func- 
tionaries was naii i^^), a noun derived from 
the verb mOa (M^), to " announce" or " tell," 



■ Num. <zsiii, 13. See IlengstGobere, Getch. Bileuiu, 
p. lit ff. 



in which sense, though the Qal is not used 
in Hebrew, it is found in the cognate Arabic. 
Hence the primary idea of the word is that 
of a spet^er or anmuruer; and as the verb is 
only used in the Niphal and Hithpael forms, 
this, as well as the form of the noun, indi- 
cates a certain passivity on the part of the 
speaker. Accordingly we find the verb in 
the Niphal always used in the sense of speak- 
ing by divine impulse really or pretendedly, 
and in the Hithpael, besides this, it is some- 
times used of one who, under some evil in- 
fluence, appears or acts as one insane ; as e,g. 
I Sam. xviii. 10, where it is said of Saul that 
the evil spirit came upon him (Maso?")), *'he 
became possessed " or " raved " (not " prophe- 
sied," as in the Authorised Version). The pri- 
mary meaning of nc^i is well expressed by the 
Greek synonyme v/w^^n/c, from icpo^i\^ *' I 
speak before," or " instead of," and which, as 
commonly used by the Greeks, designated one 
who speaks to men in place of, or in the 
name of, the gods, an interpreter of the gods ; 
whence poets are called prophets of the gods — 
prophets of the muses.* A passage which 
seems decisive as to the proper meaning of 
na^i is Exod. vii. 1, where God says to 
Moses, "See, I have made thee a god to 
Pharaoh : and Aaron shall be thy prophet " 
{^53) ; that is, Thou shalt be the source 
of communication, the inspiring power, and 
Aaron shall speak for thee, shall be the me- 
dium of communication, and shall convey to 
Pharaoh what thou layest to his hand. So, 
on a previous occasion, God said to Moses 
regarding Aaron, " He shall be to thee instead 
of a mouth, and thou shalt be to him instead 
of God" (Exod. iv. i6), where the same 
idea substantially is conveyed. The nadi, 
or prophet, then, was primarily one who 
formed a medium of communication between 
God and man — one to whom God made 
known his mind and will, and whose duty it 
was to convey to others what had thus been 
communicated to him. In this sense Abra- 
ham is called (Gen. xx. 7) a nadi, or pro- 
phet, and the term is applied to the patriarchs 
generally in Psalm cv. 15; God conveyed im- 
mediately his mind to them, and they taught 
what He had told them to others. As it is 
expressed by the prophet Amos, " The Lord 
revealed his secret unto his servants the 
prophets," and they made it known to the 
people. 

In accordance with this the prophet is 
represented as being brought under a divine 



_ • Plato. Repub., i. p. 3(6 B, ; Pba;dr., p. i6a D. TTicmis- 
tini (Orat., uiii. p. 290) tpeaka uf 'Apiom^Xovt wpo^nfr, a 
propbct, interpreter f>f AriitotJe. 



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THE PROPHETICAL BOOKS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 85 



impulse, or influence, by which he was wholly 
mastered and subjected to the divine teach- 
ing and guidance. The Umguage usually 
employed consists of sudi phrases as, " The 
Spirit of the Lord fell upon," " The word of 
the Lord came unto," " The hand of the Lord 
came upon," or "was strong upon," the indi- 
vidual who was selected to bear the message 
of the Lord. The impulse seems to have been 
irresistible, and to have frequently if nol always 
thrown the prophet into an ecstatic state, or 
state of trance, in which, withdrawn from the 
perception of objects around him, and lifted 
above the sphere of his own consciousness, 
he saw and heard what God willed him to 
see and hear. The apostle Peter speaks of 
the ancient prophets as {vtro wrofiariK ayiov 
^Ixpo/xtvot) carried away, or borne away, by 
the Holy Spirit, so that prophecy came not 
(3eX^/iart ^pitnrov) by man's will, but by 
the power of the Holy Spirit: "praeva- 
luit prophetia ipsi etiara invito," as Jarchi 
expounds the Old Testament phrase, " the 
hand of the Lord was upon " the prophet. 
Jeremiah describes the impulse that came 
upon him as altogether irresistible, and com- 
pelling him, even against liis will, to speak 
the Word of the Lord. " I said, I will not 
make mention of Him, nor speak any more 
in his name. But his word was in my heart 
as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I 
was weary with forbearing, and I could not 
stay ** (xx. 9). Exposed to injury because of 
what he uttered, the thought came into the 
mind of the prophet that he would escape 
this by holding his peace, but he was unable 
to carry out ^is resolution ; he was over- 
borne by the divine impulse ; and so against 
his own will he continued to speak as a pro- 
phet, and thereby to incur the enmity and 
persecution of those against whose miscon- 
duct he spoke. So overpowering was the 
effect of the divine afflatus on the individual 
on whom it came, that it often left him utterly 
exhausted. When Saul visited Samuel at 
Naioth in Ramah the Spirit of God was upon 
huQ, and he became possessed, and became 
another man, and as the result he sttipped off 
his clothes, and lay down naked all that day, 
and all that night, utterly prostrated and 
helpless. When the vision of God came on 
Ezekiel by the river Chebar he fell upon his 
face, and it was not till the Spirit entered 
into him, and set him again on his feet, that 
he was able to listen to the words in which 
God gave him his commission and his instruc- 
tions as a prophet. When Daniel on one 
occasion received a vision from the Lord, 
though he alone saw the vision, the men that 



were with him were seized with sudden trem- 
bling, so that they fled to hide themselves ; 
and Daniel, left alone, saw the viuon, and 
there remained no more streng^ m him, for 
he says, " My comeliness was turned in me 
into corruption, and I retained no strength " 
(x. 8). When John the beloved disciple 
was in the Spirit, was in a state of pro- 
phetic trance, under the power of the 
Spirit, and saw the vision of Christ in his 
glory, he fell at his feet as dead (Rev. i. 17). 
In this last instance the effect produced 
was probably in a great measure due to 
the overpowering splendour and glory of 
what was presented to the Apostle's view, 
rather than to the mere afflatus of the Spirit ; 
but in the other cases it was evidently the 
seizure of the individual by the hand God 
that prostrated and overwhelmed him. So 
completely were the prophets, when under 
the hand of God, out of themselves, out of 
their ordinary senses, that to the onlookers 
they seemed like madmen ; hence when the 
prophet came to the camp to Jehu, and had 
an interview with him, his officers said to 
him, " Wherefore came this mad fellow unto 
tliee?" The word here rendered *'mad fel- 
low" is 37^*^, trCshuga, the Pual participle 
of ^V^, shdga, " to be fierce or mad and 
the same word is used in. Hosea ix. 7, in 
reference to the prophet, or, as he is there 

termed, CPniri a^H uh haruach^ "the man of 
the Spirit:" "the man of the Spirit is mad." 
Effects of this kind seem to have been so 
commonly attendant on the communication 
to the prophet of a divine message, that it ap- 
pears to have been a trick of fSse aspirants 
to the prophetic office to feign this divine 
insanity in order to support their pretensions 
(Jer. xxix. 26). 

The state into whicli the prophet was some- 
times thrown was a state between sleeping 
and waking, or rather it was a state in which 
the prophet was both asleep and awake — 
asleep as respects the outer world, the world 
of sense, aw^dte as respects the spiritual world, 
^eWorld of intuitbn. Thus Bakam describes 
himself as the man of closed eyes, but whose 
eyes were open (Num. xxiv. 3, 4) ; which can 
only mean that in one sense his eyes were 
closed, and in another they were opened. So 
Zechariah (iv. i ) says, " The angel that talked 
with me came again and waked me, as a man 
is wakened out of sleep ; " on which Hengsten- 
berg * remarks, " We have here the deepest 
insight into the state in which the prophets 
were during t hdr prophecies, as compa^d 
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with their ordinary condition. The two bear 
the same relation to each other as sleeping 
and waking. A man's ordinary state in which 
he is under the control of the senses, and un- 
able to raise his spiritual eye to the contem- 
plation of divine objects, is one of spiritual 
sleep ; but an ecstatic condition in which the 
senses with the whole lower life were .quies- 
cent, and only pictures of divine, objects were 
reflected in the soul as a pure and untarnished 
mirror, was one of spiritual waking." The 
prophet would thus when in the ecstatic state 
be outwanily asleep, but inwardly awake ; 
and probably it is thus we are to explain a 
very obscure utterance of the prophet Jere- 
miah, who, in reference to a vision which he 
had of the felid^ of Zion, says, " Upon this 
I awdced and beheld^ and my sleep was sweet 
unto me" (xxxi 26). He was awidce,and yet 
he slept ; be awaked to see the vision, and he 
beheld it ; but sweet, quiet sleep heM his 
senses prisoners so that the outer world was not 
consciously present to him. It is in accord- 
ance with this that it was during the night, 
and in what seemed to them dreams, that the 
visions of the Lord came most frequently 
upon those who were favoured with them. 
From the fact that to the mind of the prophet, 
thus raised above the sphere of the outward 
and the sensible, there was presented in 
scenic representation what God was pleased 
to make known to him, the title "seer" 
came to be used of the prophet, and what he 
had to communicate received the name of 
*' vision." 

According to Mairaonides, " the noun 
'"WpD ('vision') signifies that such perfection 
of action came before the imaginative faculty 
that it appeared to the man as if he actually 
saw the thing, as if it were outwardly exhibited 
to him, and he perceived it by his external 
senses." * The designation "watchmen" also, 
as applied to the prophets, has its reason in 
the same fact ; as the watchm^ on the walls 
of the city- saw from afar what was approach- 
ing and could give notice of it to others, so 
the prophet standing on hismitch-tower,asHa- 
bakkuk expresses it (ii. i), watched to see what 
God would present to him that he might carry 
the message to die people. Other designations 
of the prophets in the Old Testament are 
" Man of God " (i Sam. ii. 27 ; i Kings xiii, 
i); " Messenger of Jehovah " (Haggai i. 13); 
"Servant of Jehovah" (Jer. vii. 25), &c 
These may be regarded as titles of honoiu:, 
indicative of the light in which the prophets 
were regarded as specially privileged to have 
intercourse with God. 

* Moreh Ncvocbim, ii. 36. 



Standing in this relation to God, and thus 
illuminated, instructed, and guidol by his 
Spirit, the prophets delivered their message 
as from God, and claimed for it the reverence 
due to what God himself says. They avowed 
that what th^ uttered, whether oS teadiing, or 
reproof, or warning, or prediction, was not 
from themselves or of their own excogitation 
or volition, but was strictly from the Lord. 
The word was his ; they were but the vehicles 
through which it was conveyed to man. They 
ever |M:«faced what they had to say by the 
phrase, "The utterance of Jdiovah," "The 
Word of God," VThus saith the Lord," and 
such like ; and they called on men to listen 
to and obey their words as not man's words, 
bat those of God himself. 

Coming forward tnAi these pretensions, the 
prophets were bound to fnnu^ evictence diat 
they were what diey pretended to be. In 
such a case, the only alternative is either that 
they really did enjoy divine communications, 
actually did see the viaons of the Lord, and 
actually did hear his words and were the 
bearers of his message, or that they were gross 
impostors, false witnesses for God, pretenders 
to what they had no claim to, and deceivers 
of the people. Between these tvro there is no 
middle position that can be assumed regard- 
ing them. Tests were accordingly given by 
which the pretensions of any who assumed to 
be prophets were to be tried; the people 
were solemnly chaq;ed not to Teoeive as a 
prophet any who foiled to make good his 
claims; and the severest penalties were de- 
nounced against all who should falsely pre- 
tend to that office. All this did not prevent 
false prophets appearing among the Jews ; but 
the tests were sufficient to enable those who 
were desirous of ascertaining the truth to 
detect the impostors ; and it was only in times 
of great religious degeneracy, and especially 
under the influence of idolatrous kings, that 
the false prophets were permitted to obtain 
any authority or place in the nation. 

One of the tests by which the prophet was 
to be tried was the accordance of what he 
uttered with the law of the Lord. The pro- 
priety and suitableness of such a test must be 
at once admitted. In the law the Israelites 
possessed a revelation of the divine mind and 
will, and on what the law laid down their 
entire civil and religious institute was founded. 
It was impossible for them, then, to receive 
as from God anything that was contrary to 
or not in accordance irith the law God had 
given them, and on which their state was 
founded. The prophet, therefore, who did 
not speak according to Ae fe^i^ig^ieUpC 



THE PROPHETICAL BCX)KS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 



that a clear evidence that God had not sent 
him, and stamped himself a false pretender. 

The prophets also might prove their divine 
mission by perfoimhig miracles. Thus we find 
both Elijah and Elisba performing mimdes 
which carried conviction to tfaoae who wit- 
nessed them that they were men of God, i.e. 
true prophets. In thie law of Moaes this was 
recognised as one of the cnteria which a 
pretender fto the prophetic office might be 
tested. " If there arise among you," s^s the 
law (Deut. nii. i), " a prophet or dreamer of 
dreams, and give thee a sign at a woedtf;'* 
words which evidently imply that tbit mi^ be 
offered and aocqrted as an evidenoe of his 
divine commisum. This test, however, was 
to be used only in comwction liAi and sub- 
ordinate to thefOTmer; linr the lav goes on to 
say, " Aad the ^gn or the woader come to 
pass, whereof he spake unto tkee aaying" (or 
wheo he said), iM. « go ifter other gods 
which thou hast not known, amd let us seme 
them, thou shall: mat heaiken to the wordi of 
that prophet " ^>eitt. idii. i — ^3). Here it is 
suiyosed that Ihe peopie tu^oIL be deceived 
by an adroit pe ifawci; and led to receive 
as a sign fixwn heaven what was moKkf a 
piece of hnoan it^enuity, brt that tlKy could 
not be dweived into befieving ibst what 
plaialgr oKXtradicted what God had incul- 
cated upon them in bis iaw couU be froni 
Hin, HoMe, while tliqr woe nat to undlB^ 
vahie the finner tei^ tib^wm alto to apffy 
it snbjectto Ae latto: 

But ik& mma evidacx by which a pophet 
was to (uvMe (faat God was with ban, and 
that he Ind oiane teth oonnni&aianed to 
speak ftooi God, nas the bilfilm^ of pte- 
dictions attaaed by bnyand which were sodi 
as aeae kmaa sagacity could not have 
enabled any nan to utter. These lest- 
predictioBS related to proximate eveate, such 
as were to happen within a limited peciod, but 
which weM not such as (me not diving in- 
structed caidd Jawe for e seen. When siKh a 
predictum aaa idBled, the claims of the 
prophet were at aace eitdiliAed. Tlio^ we 
read of Sanad liHt " the Laai aw aridi hi^ 
and let none his woids to 4k gxaund ; 
and all Israel knew " m coaEoqaence of 
this) " that Samuel was estaUi^ied to be a 
prophet of the Lord" (i Sam. iii. 19). These 
were teste £or Ac mm o£ the piopbets' own 



day; but they apply equally to those pre- 
dictions whidi looked into the far-distant 
future, and the fulfihnent of which affords to 
those of later ages evidence the divinity of 
those by whom they were uttered. 

The writings of the prophets consist partly 
of discourses and partly of predictive visions 
which they saw and in words describe. Of 
the discourses some were actually delivered 
ocally to the people, while others from their 
more elaborate diction appear to have been 
destined to be communicated only in a 
written form. In these latter the poetical 
character prevaUs, and sometimes the poetry 
rises to the highest pitch. Hie wioDS which 
the imphet describes were iriiat were actu- 
ally presented to him whilst in &e ecstatic 
state. Hence snch expression* as, I looked 
and bcbeld,** " I lifted up my eyes and saw," 
" Than was shewed unto me," are used to 
intiodace the description. Hence also the 
freqoent use of the present tense in describ- 
ing what was to happen only in the future ; 
it was present to the praj^et who in vision 
saw it happening, and so describes it Hence 
also Ae greater attention which the prophets 
■pmf to tibe gvoojung and coknring of their 
pictares than to dK dironol(^;ical sequence 
of the events they ^edict; diey saw the 
objflCiB they descrflje, not in sequence, but as 
onemioQ, and hence objects are {daeed side 
by adewfaidi m actaal rrslitotina have been 
widcfy separated. In theae visions also sym- 
bob of pencaw and actioDS am often intro- 
daoed, and some^mes the prophets sawlliem- 
sdvet acting as sysAols atha to the people 
or of the pe^^i<; (see £xdc. inL, hi.). I'he 
better tfaaigs to oome" of gospel dis- 
p fMtt on are not infrequently represented 
by lymbab and tencs dtswn fiom objects 
known todiepnifaetand his contemporaries 
in tiie Jewish slat^ or from event^ places, 
and persons with which they were familiar. 
Onty in this way could any just conception 
be conveyed to the minds of those who lived 
aader the former diq>ensation of that new 
and higher state of which the Apostle says, 
4iat ** nwa have not heard nor p^ceived by 
tbe ear, neither kath the eye seen, O God, 
beside Thee, what He hath prepared for him 
that waiteth for Him" (i Cor. it 9, comp. 
Isa, Ixiv. 4), 

W. UNDSAV-ALSXANDSR. 



Digitized by 



Gc ogle 



8S 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



^ CLEAR NOVEMBER DAY. 



TXTHEN the last leaves linger on the trees, 
' * And the sky is blue and clear, 
And the sun smiles down, how he seems to crown 
The old departing year ! 



In summer he shone, but now he smiles : 

Undazzled we lift our cycs, 
For the heavenly light is scarce too bright 

When seen in wintry skies. 




The leaves are dying, the innocent leaves, 
And humbly they lie at our feet ; 

The day speaks of death with its every breath. 
And yet it is passing sweet. 

The warm rich tints of varying brown, 
And the gold on which sunlight glows. 

The tender green here and there to oe seen, 
With just a glimmer of rose : 



All these are lovely ; but not in these 

Lie the charm of this perfect day — 
It comes after mist, as if heaven had kiss'd 

The clouds and Uie tears away. 

May the sun thus gladden my fading leaf, 

May heaven's clear blue be in sight, 
And my life at its close share the deep repose 

Of to>day with its golden light I 

J. BUCKHOSE. 

Digitized by V^OO^ 



89 



LITTLE ESSAYS. 

Bt the author of "JUpeks for Thoughtfvl Girls." 
x. — ^**the duty of delight." 



I AM indebted to Mr. Ruskin for the title 
of this little essay. The phrase expresses 
graphically what I wish to write — that de- 
light, the purest and highest even in earthly 
thmgs, is perfectly possible after the days of 
childhood and youth have passed, and that 
the strong feeling of pleasure is as desirable 
as it is pos^le. 

I do not wish to meddle here with that 
noblest exj^ession of delight v^ich has to do 
with man's immortal rdations, and under the 
influence of which he zises to the utmost 
height which his nature can reach, in not only 
seeking to glorify God, but in becoming capa- 
ble of communing with and rejoicing in Him. 
While I desire fully to recognise this grandest 
development of the capacity for de%ht, my 
intention is to leave the discussion of it in 
better hands. I am the more content to 
deal with the lower form, because I not only 
think that it is a step to the higher, but 
because the condmion is forced upon me 
that it is a step the beauty and value of 
which is apt to \St overlooked and under- 
rated, sonietimes misjudged and falsely ac- 
cusal. 

I b^;ih by askii^ what are the lower forms 
of delight, which are not only warranted, but 
absolutely enjoined by die spirit of genuine 
Christianity on its followers ? 

After delight in those attributes of God 
which we can feebly comprehend — 'his justice 
and mercy — must come delight in all human 
acts of justice and mercy, all words and 
deeds of tmth and loving-kindness, unflinch- 
ing and self-SLcrificing, which have the Spirit 
of God for their source, and the life of the 
Son of God for their gnmd example. 

Delight in the works of God in nature 
rank next. 

I call upon my readers to observe that the 
exercise of delight in these respects is repeat- 
edly and empl^tically insisted upon in the 
Bible. David, the King of Israel, the man 
after God's own heart, is never tired of ex- 
patiatmg on his cordial sympathy with and 
hearty pleasure in the godly and the good — 
the man who not only fears God, but shows 
the nature of his fear by his practice of 
righteousness, his fidelity to his obligations, 
and lus consideration for his neighbour. So 
also David, above all other inspired writers, 
sings not only like a fervid poet, bat like a 

IV. H.S. 



large and tender hearted maa, of sun and 
moon, of little hills and fields, woods and 
crannies of the rock, of young lions and 
timid conies receiving their meat in due 
season, and swallows finding a place of rest 
under God's own altar. 
. Few things are more touching in the 
divinely human traits of our Lord than his 
generous reading b> praise where He could 
praise any element of good, any faltering 
virtue in the weak and ening men and 
women^suiroancUDg Him.. Thus Headmow- 
ledged the absence of fidsehood in the woman 
of &maria, dwelt on the guilelessness of Na- 
thanael, and lauded the &ith of the Canaan- 
itish woman. . Contrast this loving rec<^ition 
of the smallest redeeming quality in fallen 
humani^ with the harah estimate, the uni- 
versal condemnation, and-:- what is perhaps 
worse and more fatally damaging as a frame 
of- mind to be indulged in — the cynical con- 
,tempt for mixed motives and underlying ten- 
dencies cherished and exhibited with satis&c- 
tion by many prdessing Christians. 
: It seems to me that a corresponding trait 
in the Lord^ character was the wistful refer- 
ences, in the form of analc%[ies, to the lilies, 
and the ravens, and the .children playing in 
the market-place, which indicate how closely 
He . must . have observed the natural world 
around him, and doubtless., taken .sweet 
earthly solace from it. 

Another form of delight l^timat^ly open 
and beneficial in its degree to men and 
women, is that which is experienced in the in- 
telligent and sympathetic study of God's laws 
of nature as evolved in science, and of the 
works of creative genius, whether displayed 
in litemture or art. 

It has been thought and said that a per- 
sistent investigation of the real is actively 
hostile to the ideal. Reverence dies where 
tamiliarity b^pbs. Where there is no room 
left for the imagination, faith itself is apt 
to dwindle and perish. Thus the greatest 
students of pure mathematics, chemistry, 
animal physiology, even of philosophic his- 
tory, have been liable to become mere 
materialists, believers in nature and in an 
orderly sequence of events, but not in a 
God of nature or in an overruling Providence 
which shapes our destinies ^ 

" Ronch hew tb^jgi^ijBdrg^'Cj O Og 



go SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



But this is a crude inference. Only of 
dabblers in sdence, or at most with regard 
to one unfortunately constituted class of 
minds — strictly and formally lineal accord- 
ing to man's limited logicj and of v. liat may 
be called negative proclivities — can it be 
said tet any unount ctf ibformaticHi lessens 
die field imaginatioa, and vinually crushes 
&ith. Many of the first scientific men in 
every generation, fioom Newton to Faraday, 
have - amply 'vindicated the fact -that the most 
extensive knowledge of the hmrs el matter 
may co-eocst with unshaken fsath, at once 
soaring and shnple. To such men the 
leverent inquiry iato.KDeQkific tiuth, with its 
mawdlous discoveries -and eiuinisite details, 
hn ever been fraught <witfa the keenest, most 
UBq«alified>dalight.. life has had no<weari- 
nflH for them. 4fot a dayhaB.been.took»)g. 
Often to die hot 'dsy of ttieiriives thejr have 
punned thev leataiclieB ind recorded their 
condusions «idk -die naflaggiag ardour of a 
lover. ' 

On the other hand, it has been urged that 
the gratification of the iongination which 
may be obtained by devotion to literature 
and art, has a curiously hardening ^ect on 
the moial nature, alount m proportion to its 
refining power on the taste. In shact, rthe 
pampering of the imagination, even -where no 
depraved models have faeen adopted, is 
Edleged to resuh in -die starving of tbe heart. 
The fiuit of. the process is -said to lie a oal- 
louily aelfi^ being, open to Benaaous and 
imaginatively intellectual pleasures, bat fear- 
fully dead to the highest manly .and wxmanly 
virtne, to wide sympadiy, self-forgetfiil 
benevolence, and tender pi^ for the suffering 
and degraded. Such a ruin of a man pro- 
duced by the h^hest culture, of which self is 
tbe centre, "with its awful punishmsnt, is 
magnificedtly depicted in Tennyson^ ^ Balace 
of Art" 

But here again expanence demonstzates 
the futility of general and sweeping conclu- 
aons. It is not tbe oddvation of ima- 
ginative intellect "whidt is in iuilt, 'When the 
human heart shrivels and beonnes petrified 
tmder the culdvadon. It is the ncklos 
cultivation of intellect, to the exclusion of the 
patriodc, civic, household charities of life, and 
in absolute forgetfubiess of evety heavenly 
command to love and to be loved. 

Men have been not only gifted, but trained 
to the hi^est exercise of their imaginative 
gifts, and yet have remained generous and 
benignant as well as reverent. Such may 
have been Shakspeare, whom his contem- 
poraries styled "gentle;" such, in spite of 



slander, was Raplu^l among paintos ; and _ 
such were Mozart and Mendelssohn among ' 
musidans. 

Deligh^ whetlwT in men and women, 
when they are most manly and womanly— 
that is, nearest heroic — or in the works of 
God in -nature, or in the wdrievements of 
genius, impties enthusiaon, and this is not 
an enthusiastic age. On the CDntzaiy, it has 
been so long the iishion to.afiect apathy'and 
imp^ indifference, that one is tempted to 
hope, considering the fleeting nature of 
fashions, that this 'lepeUaat .and mischievous 
affectation may pass away like other ,affecta- 
tioBS. But I am compdled to amx that I 
see ao'tiace of its being on the .wane, unless 
indeed that it has chaiiged.its chanLcter,.and 
diat the Sadducean cyiuciam which fiuxaah 
virtue and vice on a level, tolsntes all, .and 
mocks at all, has supeneded 'du dawdling, 
drawling inoni^ that has been reckoned 
wiser and wortluer than cnidid interest and 
cordial assertion. 

Yet ^without enthusiasm, one is draren to 
write that great and good men and women 
have existed, and do exist, .in vain for dieir 
fellows. In the same manner, if >the broad 
book of :nature should open its glorious, en- 
chanting pages, and meet with no ze^onse, 
hardly even with attention from .mam, its :ap- 
pcunted lord^it is suffered toiiuliin a primary 
design. 

it wwUd be a gtoes libel on Bun-to in^ly 
that Bodi .hpedlf'wnaM always prevailed and 
will .pievaiL The old Greeks not xmly 
erected to the keeper.af dieir brit^'a statue 
that halted an oae knee, but spdke -of him 
with proud gladness by ithe hearths where 
mai, women, and childxon .met, and heard, 
as they ^ped their boira and wove their 
baskets, and roasted their -ohestnute. The 
Swedish botanist ftll down on .hiB Jmees and 
wordiipped ^God before a sing^ budi of 
broom. A poor young azehitcia .spent his 
holiday and a besides in tramping 

many a weary mile amply to look on die 
niins of an old abb^. 1^ juivil^ of 
CDmmanding access to— fflattDHgr of possess- 
ing — preoona Imwn nolinae 4» a homely 
book4Call, has filled on iMpiiring ^irit vaith 
rapture. 

I am byino means questicmii^ tbe exist- 
ence of such ieelings, I am pleadiij^ for their 
greater eiteDsiDn. There should not -merely 
be a monument in a:Uttle town on the east 
coost of Scotland, to the yomig doctor who 
conducted himself gallantly and fell a victim 
to his gallantry, in the couise tt( the Crimean 
War. -Men and women beyond his town. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF J>R. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESL 



91 



be3wnd even his country, should still ^>eak 
with bated breath and beating hearts of tfas 
&eld of Russian dead and djrii^, and the 
stead&st young Scotchman who, vdien the 
Eo^ish anny maidicd -m, volnntecKd, with 
the b^p ■ of a single serrant, to venuin, and 
not oaly to ■ia.ce the grim and ghastly sight 
under the ni^t wind ■ and the stars, but -to 
attem^ the -superhuman task of miniatenng 
to the foes stretdied in groaning hundreds 
amoi^ the sileat > dead oa the -wveful plain. 
His eartiily reward was found in the fangs 
of cholera etc Jits Heroukan labour was 
endied. Weatnmistcr Abb^ was not for him, 
and yet should his laarsls iade P 

And I am 'fain to -contiMt Lumhbus, as he 
knalt before die gcddcn bioom, judtii -the 
otiginal of Peter ^9cU,JtoiRhom 

" A irriiprow.bj tlie rircc'i ban, 

■A. r^inm g rii aw i e ^ ww to hint 

And it wM nothiitg inore." 

I paadtx «diether:4he prepcmdcnnce of die 
Peter Bells :over the lianfeuses is altogethn* 
earned by dire mdeness and duhicss; 
whether the ooolnttss and aardesaWGS with 
which fine w«ks of genius are o&en gre^ied 
and passed by/in die esse of those on ^triuu- 
they are showered ^in a plefotnicle of (atfoax, 
is entirely owing to deficient brains aad mail 
sensibiiittes ; or srhctiwr in the hniry aad 
stiqg^e «f ike men lese-flig^ of tiieir nsblast 
privihigce ; or-wbetker, &uUy, A<sclf*aoud«ifr 
fear of havnig award«3 to:tiwm the ^fectiire 
epithet "gushing" which has sucoessfolly 
sconced tiie opposite description of ofiecta- 
tion, restxains much of the eutnnud manifes- 
tation of indwiduaLeentiraent 

Of tlua I am ■sure,:that the CKercise of a 
sincere dehght in the . highest gifts oi om 
present ttfe, is not only on ez^ssion of be- 
coming gndtiide to tiie. GtMf'Of all gpood 



giib, but has in itself a refinipg''and affH^qn^. 
as well as cheering, influenfie on inan*« naAire. 

I do not think:it.neeeH«y.todoTOore than 
nafer to the <(dd aacelic objectipa to the enjoy- 
ment of God's houQty.her^ as if He. grudged 
it to his childTen, or sou^' to -mftlce them 
buy 4beir future gain — not by the loss of their 
grievous tis>s tad deep soJfiahne^s, wbioh in 
his love for then He does 'require, but by the 
loss of aU tlmt is .grand, and lively, .and 
winning in his pnmnt craation. I do pot 
imagine that of the uany ^who Abstain .from 
deiigbt in iGod's creattwos And cret^ion, ^gxte 
is at tins date mtne thnn a eectiion in «ny 
Christian dturch .who deny tfa«im^ife& ,<hi 
piincQkle, and st«nd g«g^ cad vxUhisg 
under a nmtshiin inapneaiKW thtf ^nsy «re 
obeying -the mwidAte lOf the soveiiyga JUird 
of the univetae. 

If delist be good, there: is, wi c^iligatiofi 
on us to exerdse it, and if there be 9n obliga- 
tion, there is a power of fuiAbnmt. But I 
honestly believe that pwe okl^ht is only 
possible to childitni, And to those whb strive 
after cbildiUheness in heart ; that not Alone 
m oorrvption .of Ttce, but tJaal ail unbridled 
pafvion, is foceiign and finial to delight. There 
may be brutal sMis&cttOB in the induliswMe 
of the lower appetites, iweiish e»iltstion in 
the Aoquisitioes of greed . or , anabition, and 
gidffy.plenawe in sheer fiiwliiQr.; but-auch 
dieli^as J hftve been writing pf,:6iMli iveUr 
nigh pathetic jey am the horpic viriwe or 
tnuinphiint n^mptaoa.t^ A.feQov-mtm, over 
the sublimity of.arrogCHintain, or the^aweetji^ 
of a. floffcr, ewer the weaweUingof.^ link in 
eternal laws, or -the beautiful i€ono{^tion 
of a master xaind, belongs by r^t , and of 
necessity to the oanior theiiwpiw 1^ »s 
httotble.iuidwi^e-'heartadf wbo.^baes not set 
store upon hinutelf oritenelf, wid Drtio.stftDids 
a{Mrt iaem tbej|p>Miifyyi«iOf.jWiWtlirivii|hy. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONJE AND 
THE ZAMBESL 



V. — EVENTS AT SHUPANQA- 



IN last nuqaber we left the jPUtMr agroaod 
on a ^dapit, into which she had run on 
a moonlight night, at a position less than>fifty 
miks from the sea. Owt^g to many .siMalar 
delays, we did not readi our first hahing- 
I^ace till' near tbe'cnd of-the month; andion 
the erreninf^ofSabbathf Febniaiy 23rd, we cast 
aDchorat SArapooga, close to a beautiTiiI grove 



of mangoes, an the souflh bank of the river. 
On a gentle slope rather more than a hundred 
yanlB from 'the water's' 'edge, and dose by a 
native .village, bhere mas e stone house, witii 
whitewashed walls and a bmank-tiled roof. 
The house ovntained -nodw^ but dowsiand 
sashkss .windows, b«t.5lill .it uaex* 
pected and pleasant rOl^edii^ 



92 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



built a long time previously by some of the 
Portuguese on the coast, but was now, to 
all intents, abandoned, though a half-caste 
kept possession in name of the owner. As 
we looked at the beauty of its position, 
backed by fine woods, with the broad gleam- 
ing river in front, and the great mass 
Morambala mountain lifting its square head 
to the clouds some thirty miles distant, at 
the entrance of the Shire valley, while n^- 
lect and decay were everywhere conspicuous 
about the place itself, we fell into the usual 
habit of our countrymen of fault-finding, and 
of freely expressing our opinions as to what 
could be made of the place if it were in the 
possession of an Englishman. Probably 
th^ was a little both of truth and error in 
our views, for we did not all then know 
fully the history of tilie place, nor what sad 
memories were to coimect themselves with 
Shupanga before we finally Ind it adieu. 

In the present paper I puipose to give 
some account of the events vdiich befell Dr. 
Uvingstone and his Expedition during the 
earlier part of 1S62. The first few months 
of that year formed one of the most trying 
portions of his life;- the difficulties and 
disasters of that period he probably felt 
more keenly, though with less physical 
sufiering, than those which brought his long 
journeys and protracted struggle with diffi- 
culties to an end ten years later at Ilala in 
Central Africa, some distance further to the 
north than our present position on' the Zam- 
besi. These events were the &ilure of the 
Expedition to carry up the river that year 
the new steamer, from whose presoice on 
Lake Nyassa so mudi was expected. This 
delay was probably the cause of its never 
reaching the lake. Had it been once launched 
on those waters, it is possible- that the whole 
future of Livingstone's life would have as- 
sumed a different hue and direction. To 
secure a position there, was the object of 
incessant effort for two or three years, and 
the occasion also of a considerable expen- 
diture of money both on his own part and 
on that of some of his firiends. 

During that period also there occuired the 
death of Bishop Mackenzie, and the first 
serious misfortunes which befell the Univer- 
sities* Mission ; and finally, within the same 
ill-omened months, the death of Mrs. Living- 
stone. On looking back at that period the 
wonder is how he held on, and bravely 
struggled through it all. 

In a few days after our arrival at Shu- 
panga the ship was got ready for the ascent 
of the river, and on the, last Wednesday of 



February she stood into the mid-stream. 
The strength of the current carried her well 
across to the other side, and a second effort 
found her hug^ng the c^xisite shore for 
protection. This first attempt made it so far 
plain that the ship was overweighted, uid as 
the depth of water in the river was now 
decreasing every day, the prospect of a 
speedy voyage to the Murchison Cataracts, 
some two hundred and fifty miles distant, 
seemed very doubtful. But Dr. Livingstone 
was not likely to give up the work till 
success was proved to be impossible. Ac- 
cordingly more than ten days were spent in 
this cruise on the Zambesi in the neighbour- 
hood of Shupanga. During that time we 
were chiefly occupied in s^ing or hauling 
the ship through sand-banks. The steamer 
was drawing between five and six feet of 
water, and though there were long reach^ 
of the river wi& depth suflicient for a ship of 
laiger draught, yet every now and again we 
found ourselves in shoal water of about three 
feet. No sooner was the vessel got off one 
bank by might and main and steady hauling 
on capstan and anchors laid out ahead, 
almost never astern, and we had got a few 
miles of fiiir steaming, Uun again we heard 
that sound abhorred by all of us — a slight 
bmnp of the bow and the rush of sand along 
the ship's side, and we were again fast for a 
few hours, or a day or two, as the case might 
be. It must not be inferred that the failure 
was due to any inability to grapple with the 
difficulties of river navigation. Several of 
the ofllcos of the Ger^M still remained widi 
Dr. Livingstone — Lieutenant Keppel, Mr. 
Devereux, and others, and the sailing g£ the 
ship was under the charge of Mr. £. D. 
Young. But the time had now come for all 
except Mr. Young to leave us. Their boats 
were provisioned as far as the stores of the 
ship would allow, and one afternoon early in 
March they bid us farewell ; and after three 
ringing cheers from those who went and 
those who remained, they dropped down the 
river to the coast, in obedience to the orders 
of their ctnnmander to leave at a certain 
date. Shorty after this it was foimd neces- 
sary to alter the plan of proceeding, and 
return to Shupanga and unlade the vessel, 
and at that place endeavour to put together 
the sections of the steamer, and tow her up, 
since she could not be carried up in con- 
formity with the first plan. It was therefore 
rather a relief to all concerned when on the 
evening of the 9th of Mardi, amidst the hiss 
of steam, the Pimeer again dropped anchor 
at the point we had j^ffi^^^^gnj^ 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVINGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI 



before. The delay was very trying to Dr, 
Livingstone, as it meant not a few weeks, 
but the loss of ^ year, inasmuch as by the 
time the ship was ready to be laundied the 
river would be nearly at its lowest, and there 
would be no resource but to wait for the next 
rainy season. Yet, in the face of discourage- 
ments, he maintained his cheerfulness, and 
after sunset still enjoyed many an hour of 
prolonged talk about current events at home, 
about his old college days in Glasgow, and 
about many of those who were unknown 
men then, but have since made their marks 
in life in the different paths they have taken. 
^Amongst others his old friend Mr. Young of 
'Kelly, or "Sir Parafline," as he used subse- 
quently to call him, came in for a laige share 
of the conversation. Amongst other occa- 
sions of anxiety at that time there was this. 
Between three and four weeks before, Captain 
Wilson had gone up the river with two boats, 
taking with him the ladies of the Univer- 
sities* Mission. It was thought that by this 
method time would he saved, and the ladies 
carried sooner to their destination. Except 
for the return of one of the boats with four 
men who had fallen sick, no tidings had 
arrived of Captain Wilson or his party ; and 
the region into which they had gone was by 
no means in a settled state. On the evening 
of Friday, the 14th of March, several of the 
members of the Expedition were sitting en- 
joying the cool and billiant moonlight which 
had succeeded to a burning day. At some 
distance on the river, whidi seemed tike a 
broad ^eet of silver, there was seen what 
appeared to be a large canoe ; but shortly 
the measured stroke of oars, and the sound 
of voices, both so different from the stroke 
of nadve paddles and the peculiar song of 
African canoe-men, made those who were 
watching that speck on the water start to 
their feet. In a little time the boat was 
along^de. It was the long-looked-for man- 
of-wax's gig, with Captain Wilson and the 
party which had started with him. It tnonght 
a heavy budget of disastrous news. Bishop 
Mackenzie was dead and the Rev. Mr. 
Burrup. Both had perished from fever. This 
was the first of that series of misfortunes 
which destroyed the Universities* Mission 
in that part of Central Africa, and caused 
its removal afterwards to Zanzibar. Fatigue, 
exposure for so many days and nights, want of 
proper food, and grief, had well-nigh killed 
the two unfortunate ladies. As I looked 
over the ship's side, and saw them lying in 
&e bott(»n of the boat, I was not sure 
whether they were alive or not None of 



the party had been able to reach the mission 
station. The ladies were left at a native vil- 
lage on the banks of the Shire, and Captain 
Wilson and Dr. Kirk attempted to go on to 
Magomero, where the mission was settled. 
This was four days* journey among the hills. 
Both were prostrated by fever, and Captain 
Wilson's life was despaired of At a certain 
stage of the journey he became unable to 
walk, and his stout and faithful coxswain 
carried him on his bacic to the nearest 
village. From there native messengers were 
sent on to the station, and some of the 
missionaries arrived. The result of a deli- 
beration was that as the husband of the one 
and the brother of the other lady was dead, 
and the country was disturbed by war, and 
the position of the mission insecure there 
was nothing left for them but to retrace tfieir 
steps some nine or ten Uiousand miles home- 
wards, taking with them this somewhat new 
and strange and rather bitter experience of the 
dangersofmissionarylife inCentralAfrica. As 
soon as the violence of the fever abated, Cap- 
tain Wilson returned to the Shire, and pressed 
down the river night and day as fast as the 
current and oar and paddle could carry his 
boat ; and in this forlorn condition the party, 
which had left rather more than three weeks 
before in high spirits, and with hopes that 
were scarcely dimmed by a single mi^ving, 
suddenly returned to us. 

The extent of this disaster, taken along 
with the po»ti(m of the mission at the time, 
can hardly be estimated by readers of this 
paper. it was fully understood by all 

connected with the Expedition, and its bear- 
ings on future efforts in the country were 
painfully apprehended by Dr. Livingstone 
himself. It was difficult to say whether he 
or the unhappy ladies on whom the blow fell 
with greatest personal weight were most to 
be pitied. He felt the responsibility, and saw 
the widespread dismay which the news would 
occasion when it reached England, and at 
the very time when the mission most needed 
support " This will hurt us all," he said, as 
he sat resting his bead on his hand on the 
table of the dmily-lighted little cabin of the 
J'ufruer. His esteem for Bishop Mackenae 
was afterwards expressed in his second book, 
in this way :— " For unselfish goodness of 
heart and earnest devoti<m to the work he 
had undertaken, it may be safely said^ that 
none of the commendations of his friends 
can exceed the reality.*" He did what he 
could, I believe, to comfort those who were 
so unexpectedly bereaved ; but the nie^ he 
spent must have been an v^f^SSPS^ VLj 



94 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



It was now found necessary tliat the Pwncer 
should go down to the mouth of the river with 
the female portion of the mission who were to 
return to England, and with Captain Wilson, 
who was anxious to get back to his ship. 
Kveiything was gpt rrady, the wooding was 
completed in haste, and next evening, an 
hour before sunset, according to the dates I 
kept, the vessel swung round in the current, 
and at the same time the current of severs.! 
Hves changed also, and began to flow In a 
direction totally different from that which the 
hopes and expectations of the last few months 
had excited. On the hank among the mango- 
tiees I stood and watched the vessel moving 
oif, and when it was well out into the stream, 
I took off my hat and waved them a farewell. 
Ill qui: daily inteFOOurse with men there are 
words and acts, attitudes and expressions, that 
remain fixed as pictuiea in memory, while 
there are thousands of othos that leave not 
a trace behindl On this occasion I was watch- 
ing Dr, Livingstone,: as he was standing well 
aft and his wife close by him. His eye caught 
mine, his face lighted up for a moment, and 
he took off his cap and returned the salute, 
tie had a- careworn and anxious expression, 
and he looked a great deal more than two 
dasB-oldev by this load of additional anxiety 
which, had fallen upon him. Captain Wilson 
also was looking ha^fard and woln from fever 
caught- io^ the jouniey to the hills, and from 
the wone fever of aaxictyabout his ship, from 
vriuch he. had now been separated nearly five 
weda. He had risked much, and done all 
Jhat the Adoiial^s orders woiUd permit, and 
his- owa generous and unselfish spirit could 
suggest, to^aid Livingstone at that time \ and 
yet all he had suffiered was but a part of what 
avKUted- him.. On reaching the bar of the 
Zambesi his ship was nowhere to be seen. 
She bad been blown from her anchorage in a 
storm, and obliged -to leave the coast, ten days 
prenously, and an- entire fortnight elapsed 
befiare the g;r%at bulk of the Gorgon was seen 
stamding. in for the shone. The sight of her 
approach must have lifted a great weight from 
the heart of Ci4>tam John Wilson^ who was 
re^)onsible to bar Bntannic Majesty for the 
shipishe had entiusted to his care. Dr. Living- 
stone was- the heart and spring and central 
figure of all that was done on the Zambesi 
during that time ; but.it should never be for- 
gotten that there were many men who were 
risking life itself— and some of them losing 
it — and others undergoing untold anxieties 
and fatigues, in order to help the Doctor in 
carrying out the objects he had in view. 
Captain Wilson was one of these; and the 



services performed by him and others only 
too readily pass out of mind. AH that load 
of disappointed hope, anxie^, grief, and care 
the Pionerr was now carrymg down to the 
sea. In a short time the white-painted hull 
of the little steamer had dlsappeawi behind 
the tall gross and reeds' of one of the many 
small islands which lie in Uie channel of the 
lower Zambesi. As there was no objecT to 
be gained by my going to the coast,. I was 
left behind with three artisans, whose work 
was to make preparations for the launch of 
the iron steamer. When the ship wtis out of 
sight I turned and walked away down the 
bank of the river j a'nd then, as tiie darkness 
came on, there came on' also, for the first 
time, a slight sense of loneliness, as I now 
found myself fairljr fitce to ftoce with the work 
tiiat had broi^ht ne to Centkal Africa. 

ft was three weeks befbre the steaxtser re- 
turned ; and at diat same spot we remained 
three and a half months, during, which Dr. 
Livingstone made several voyages dt)wn the 
river for palmyra palms and other appliances 
necessary for the work of the Expedition. I 
made during that time one or two~ short jour- 
neys . into the cotmcry back ftnm the river, 
and was employed al^ in acqmn'ng'as much 
of the language as could' be got without any 
written or printed help, flrfridi was not very 
much. As my movements were, in &cr, for 
the time determined by those of Dr. Living- 
stone, I was waiting till he was ready to pro- 
ceed. Thisplan I luidafVerwudErtoidter,and 
proceed alone ; but that part of my AfHcan 
experience rnay be desetibed in another pttper. 
The place was quiet enough when the steamer 
was aw£Ut>, and bustling eirangh when it re- 
turned. Its mod&rate fbrce of men, and' Dr. 
Livingstone himself, always brought new life 
and' activity to Shupanga. And, though' ntJt 
in the exact chronologjai order of events, I 
may here describe the results (rf the wort in 
which the Expedition was engaged during 
these three months. 

To put together an iran ship' one hundred 
and twenty fbet long, in which every rivet 
has of course to be driven red-hot, and 
launch that vessel saft^ into the water, may 
seem a very easy piece of work, and it is not 
by any means difficult to do'fkim a modem 
shipbuilding yard„with all the necessary means 
and'appliances at command. But with nothing 
but the primeval banks of an African river to 
work from, hemmed in by long grass and 
trees, and with, the scanty means that could 
be had, the work was not so easy: Yet it 
was done ; and, before the end of the three 
montiis there was launched from the banki^ 



1 



RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. LIVIKGSTONE AND THE ZAMBESI. 95 



oT the 2^beai die first iron steamer of any 
size that had ever floated on its waters. 
Afuch patience and ingenuity were, required 
ere the various sections, weighing from a few 
hundredweights to foiu- or five tons, were all 
accurately fitted together into a sfi!^ ready to 
receive her engines. The work of launchii^ 
conunenced about eleven o'cloclu This was 
a sight of gKAt interest to the natives, who 
^thered in large numbers to see this unusual 
sight — a great mass of iron floating on the 
water! Atfirst, appearances weceratheragainst 
us, as the Jjufy Nyassa^ after a slight move- 
ment oa the w^s, refused to proceed further. 
The whole d^waii spent in the efforts to get 
the d)i^>a£^aiid thoe was much pushingand 
checking nsb nmi^ of dundi^czews, greas- 
ing; q£ nsiya,. and digging into the bank; and 
it w& not till just before darkness set in that 
the vessel slipped into the water st^ fore- 
most, tboi^ she was intended to entar 
IwwmIbiIii: ml. When tins: feat was acsam- 
pydud and Ha great h^lonc mam q£ mm 
after a plunge or two floated Ughtijt on tile 
2^mbQS^tte white men stood looking (ntin 
silnfe aBl3afiBtioa>, and each dtew ai long 
bndL;, but not a woid "tpafcc they at &st 
FhMn. t&a &lh«k men, wmten, and childnen,. 
whO' YrnAi aaoK- to witness the »^tv there- 



wmb. at ^eaL ahaul^ or ndte yail of 
' iH wwiH t iBrif ^ft ndi astonishnieiit aich: as 
nrarfe tfifc amrounthny cauntry nngi 

Wfc ftmfcg ■hhiiiiiiili tte iiiiiiiiiii ^ 

Span^ up to. Shraaaga^ wfloiL tau. smnag 

rbnwiuJl BIhi fbm wun ftadigmDuIQrpanadl 
ioAto tiK lislt «S mwBnii esmforts — were 

biymM'iiiil' fi>E Aa offrnmrwL Two rocketti 
— iifciii liMi) in tlie presence of the oativet^. 
one of which went up^ into the darkness 
stfa^it and sb?ong, and filled- a. littie patch of 
sk^ Ksth: evanescent. staia». new ttr them, and 
theie. woe »«re yells- of wonder ! The- 
second, getting a wrong impulse from the 
branches of a small tree from which it was 
fired, descended amongst us, and in a moment 
put tiie nAxrie. crowd to fiigjht, black and 
white aUkc^ evei}( on^ rmtning to take care 
of himselt Ttte white knew the danger of 
an awkward iccfe^ and the black men did 
not Eke- d^e hissing fire. Fortnnatdy^no one 
was hitft, and after striking recklessly about, 
it ran a hundred yards along the ground, and 
with one great leap quenched its blazing 
course in the river. Next day all looked with 
pleasure at the vessel now floating on the 
Zambesi. For four months the iron sections 
as they lay about on the deck of the PUmeer^ 
or amon^pt the- grass and trees on the river 



bank, were an eyesore and a burden to aU 
concerned; but now tfae-woi4c was at an end. 
Pinis cormat opus^ — and most satis&ctory of 
all, the vessel- was making no water worth 
speaking- of— the riveting had been well 
done, and the hull was almost wateHsght 

Daring tiiese- months of steady- work at 
this one object, however, there had been 
many interruptions. The heritft of the man- 
bos of the Expe^tion had not been re- 
markal:^ good. Fever, the dreaded disease 
of that region, had fdways a hoid- of one or 
more ; but up till the end of April there were 
no fiUal cases. It was said that the fever 
had been nmcft. moos severe; than, had been 
Iqiom. for sBwal yeais be&re. As I cannot 
make mef eompaiison, of yeam> I cannot ex- 
preaL aii|t opimon, excqyt this, that I think 
the following year was mom deadly still*. I 
■shBU,.bej&Ke <dosing^ this paper, nanate wJlat 
wtu-tiwrnont inaiioittot and depusung cwnt 
alone fkKf, at l^panga. 

Itfia. LivingriiOBe was now tiks only Etno- 
peaa Ihdy wito mnainad. ia the couj^. The 
abjftct of hen jonmay thither £ have stated 
in afamus-gapen. ^U; did not return with 
tho: otiieifr to the Cape,, hut remain ad on 
board! the- /fenaar, and oame ba^ with her 
husband on. die apmid voyage. Oun Sab- 
baths s^nenll^ waae sp«it quiedy emng^, 
and duss; was. abiaytft aannaft on. hoaid. in. the 
fiwCTOOn. Sabbath,, ti^ .lurlit ofiiApiil, 
tfialt amdoe: hail been- hwWi aft —wJ^ ?n tf I 
"fr^T4 to: ffiupanga and sgsoC the day in 
the houBK Towards tvenin^, Ub aod Mrs. 
Liiiug gUiM i g came ^ from ti» a&ip* He 
isakl i^r m going to take a shortiwailE, 
and he imnladL me to- joinr tkeoL We went 
someditiBDce^up' tte irrer-side,. tilL the p«th 
bscanie lost in the grass and bush, and we 
sebomed bjcadifierBUtway through the native 
viUage. Tbat was the last time, £ bdiove, 
Mis. Livin^toae* was seea ur. bar naval 
hcfdth. In a day or two afterwards she be- 
came ill with fever. No serious consequences 
were at first apprehended, but very shortly 
the disease began to assume an: intractable 
fbnn> and towards the end o£ tbc week sbe 
was moved up to Shi^wnga House. All ttat 
oonld' be done- m* ths-n^pofi medical atten- 
tion was done Dr. Kiik ; aod Dn. luem%' 
stone himselfi remained doscly> watdiin|^ hv 
day and night together, fiioi &vourabfe 
diange had occurred by the fiiliowing 
day, and on that day all' fdt that a great 
affliction was now about to fall on our leader. 
The day was hot and trying, and ewry one 
both on sh(»e and in dK ship moved about 
as if oppressed by a sense of the impending 



96 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



calamity. About six in the evening I went 
down to the vessel for a few minutes, when a 
messenger came to say that Dr. Livingstone 
wished me to return to the house. I went 
back immediately, and when I entered the 
room and had gently closed the heavy, mis- 
shapen door, he said, " The end is evidently 
near, and I thought I would send for you." 

He was sitting by the side of a rude bed 
formed of boxes, but covered with a soft 
mattrass, on which lay his dying wife. Alt 
consciousness had now departed, as she was 
in a state of deep coma from which all efforts 



to rouse her had been unavailing. The 
strongest medical remedies and her husband's 
voice were both alike powerless to penetrate 
through the barrier of a beclouded brain, and 
reach the spirit which was still there, but 
was now so rapidly sinking into the depths 
of slumber and darkness and death. The 
fixedness of feature and the oppressed and 
heavy breathing only made it too plain that the 
end was evidently near. And the man who 
had faced so many deaths and braved so 
many dangers, was now utterly broken down 
and weeping like a child. 



After a little, he asked me to commend her 
soul to God in prayer. And he. Kirk, and 
myself, who only were in the room, knelt 
down, and we prayed fervently to Him to 
whom we always turn in our hours of greatest 
need, and when all human help and comfort 
fail, and committed her departing spirit to 
the all-embracing mercy and love of her 
Saviour. In less than an hour, and as the 
last rays of the sun were departing, there 
came over the face of the sufferer that final 
change which pain or sorrow shall never more 
alter, and the spirit returned to God who 



gave it. In this way, in the African wilder- 
ness, died Livingstone's wife and Moffat';^ 
daughter, at the close of a long clear hot 
day, the last Sabbath of April, 1862. 

Those who have often looked on the face 
of the dead must have been frequently struck 
with this, the almost entire disappearance of 
the individual expression, and the re-appear- 
ance of the likeness of some other member 
of the family, commonly that of father or 
mother, or some other progenitor. Half an 
hour after her death, I observed an extraor- 
dinary resemblance in the face of Airs. - 

UiginzecT by vjX, 



KVKRY-DAY HOMILIES. 



97 



Ijvingstone to that of her father, Robert 
Moffat. Dr. Livingstone was standing on 
one side of the bed where his dead wife lay. 
and I myself on the other. I was afraid to 
utter what struck me so forcibly, but at last 
I said, — 

" Do you notice any change ?" 

" Yes," he said, without raising his eyes 
from her &ce ; " the very features and ex- 
pression of her father." 

Our poor humanity, how strangely bound 
together it is both in life and death, so that 
even when death has done its worst on the 
body, it cannot obliterate those sacred signs 
and marks which indicate the blessed bonds 
of flesh and blood 1 

It is easy to scatter self-confident blame, 
and there are some who have severely blamed 
Mrs. Livingstone for venturing to the Zam- 
besi at that time. It 'is no part of my duty 
to express any opinion. She did what most 
women would have done, vrtiether wisely or 
not. She had seen little of her husband 
during the greater part of the previous ten 
years. During part of that time she hardly 
knew whether he was living or dead. And 
her share in what he accomplished was just 
what woman's share usually is, in a U^ge 
portion of the work done in this world — to 
help indirectly, and to wait and suffer in 
pfUience. Naturally ^oagh, she found her 
way to the Zambesi, and had spent only 
three months in her husband's society, when, 
without the care or companionship of a single 
white woman, she had to lie down and die. 
The long years of separati<m bad tried her 
severely; but, 

" All waa ended now, the Ik^o aad the fear, and tho uirrow ; 
All the aching of be«rt, Uie r««U«** uncatisfied I«iig!ng ; 
All tha deep doll pain,_Mnd the coiutant nnguuh of 
pttitDce." 



Next day, instead of the usual dazzling 
brightness of the season, the sky seemed only 
one unbroken mass of cloud, a heavy cold 
mist lay on the flat lands to the north-east, 
and the whole country seemed covered with 
a pall of fiinereal gloom. A grave was dug 
under a lai;ge^ baobab tree, which, thoiuh 
sixty-six feet in circumference, is not me 
largest of the kind in that neighbourhood. 
It stands close by the house. The men of 
the Pioneer were marched up under Mr. 
Young, and at midday Mrs. Livingstone was 
buried under the well-known tree. At Dr. 
Livingstone's request, I read the burial ser- 
vice at the grave. The sad ceremony was 
soon over, and we turned and walked away 
in silence. 

Twelve years later, four of us who had 
followed our chief in respectful silence from 
the grave of his wife met again after various 
wanderings by land and sea. These four 
were Rev. Horace Waller, Dr. Kirk, Mr. £. 
D. Young, and myself. There was also a 
fiflh, a seaman, whose name I forget. It was 
in Westminster Abbey, on the i8th of April 
last, we formed part o& the small procession 
which slowly wound its way amidst the dense 
crowds congregated both within and without 
the walls of the venerable minster. To all 
of us the scene of the 28th of April, a dozen 
years before, came up vividly before our eyes. 
There was a wide interval between the Abbey 
and the Baobab,— between the imposing cere- 
mony with whidi the nation laid its hero to 
rest and the sad simplid^ of that funeral in 
the wilderness. Some time or other the earth 
receives all her own children back to her- 
self, and somewhere or odier affords them 
all a resting-place. It matters not much, so 
be they rest m hope. james Stewart. 



EVERY-DAY HOMILIES. 



I. — GOD'S LOVE HARDENING THE HEART. 

" And when FhvAoh uw that the nin and the hail and the 
thnnden were cewed, be sinned jet more and hardened bu 
heart, ha and hia lervantf. And the heart of Pharaoh was 
MrdMod, aritbar wonld b« let din chikbea of Israel go."— 
HMD. la. 34, 33. 

GOD deals with us as we deal with chil- 
dren, or rather God teaches us to deal 
, with children as He deals with us. He 
! teaches us by examples and images : at one 
time by the lives of men, at another by para- 
, bles or pictures of truths in nature. Here 
we have the account of the irresolute will, and 
the disobedience, and half repentance of 



Pharaoh, and the effect of the patience and 
long-suffenng of God upon such a heart as his 
given for our learning and our warning. 

"The heart of Pharaoh was hardened;" 
elsewhere we read, ''the Lord hardened 
Pharaoh's heart"* These are wonderful 
words — words of which it is difficult for us 
to understand the full meaning. His hear! 
was hardened, and God hardened his heart 
God who is love," \ God whose " mercies 
are over all his works," % God who has " no 



• Eiod. X. 30, ■^^ ; »l,^io. t i Jo*"" 8. t P«. c»lv. fi^ 



98 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



{Measure" in the death of the widced,'' is 
here spoken of as hardening the lieart of 
Pharaoh so that he did not complete his 
woik of repezttance and let the children of 
Israel go out of slavery, but " dealt subtiily 
with" them "and evi! entreated "f them, 
and at length perished in his sinful dis- 
obedience. Now, brethren, neither you nor 
I, nor the wisest of mankind, can fully com- 
prehend how this can be, since we cannot 
know God's will, nrithercan we trace his work- 
ing in the heart of man, nor understand his 
ways; I am not then going to try to explain 
bow God hardened the heart of diis- king. 
Instead of attempting to do this, t am going 
to speak to yaa of the way in which the 
hearts of aimers are hardened now. For the 
history of Pharaoh is in this respect the 
ima^ of wb&t happens every day among our- 
selves. Hence it is that the life of this king, 
who lived thousands of years ago in a country 
ttjtdly different from our own, can yet be- a 
lesson and a warning to us, however poor, in 
these days and in this land. 

What God's works dp, Gi)d' does. If by 
his appointment the son, and the moon, and 
the stars speak to as of his glory, and his 
power, and hi& lov^ it is after all God speak- 
ing by them. If they turn round and move 
in their coone 1^ aiqr law-of nature, yet God 
gave that Utw at the first; so that it is, and to 
the latest day of tteir existence it will be, God 
who moves thenr. If the medicine which we 
take in. sickness and to whidi He has given 
certain powers', heals us ; if the doctor to 
whom He has given skill; and knowledge, 
and wisdom, cures us, it is, after all, God 
who heals,. God who raises us up from- the 
bed of sickness. Hence we read in the fiiblb 
of Joseph, when in prison, thati " die keeper 
of the prison committed to Joseph's- hand all 
the prisoners that were in the prison; and 
whatsoever they did there he was the doer of 
it" X It was done, that is, by his ^point- 
ment and undet his eye, and titoefora ha is 
said to have done it hunself. 

Now, remembering diis-, let us- look' at the- 
histwy of Pharaoh, whose heart was hard- 
ened. The children of Israel, God's chosen, 
people, were in bondage in Egypt, very 
cruelly oppressed ; dieir sufferings, their cries, 
and their prayers went, up to heaven. God 
sent by die month of Moses and Aaron the 
command to Phaiaoh drat he should let them 
go free. "Israel is my son, %ven my first-bom; 
and I say unto thee, Let my son go, that he 
mayserve me."§ Pharaoh refused. ThenGod 

• Euk. xixiii. ii. t Acts vii. 19. 

: Gen. uxix, 23. \ Eiod. it. a», aj. 



Stretched out hia hand over Egypt, and 
plagued the land with strange and terriUe 
plagues. The people who had so cruelly 
usra the Israelites came to their king and 
b^ged him to let the oppressed people go, 
so ^t the land might be free from the visita- 
tion of God. Pharaoh promised to do so, 
and then drew back. When he was suffering 
from the chastisement which God had sent, 
he half repented. It seemed for a moment 
that this mi^ have grown into full repent- 
ance. God withdrew his- hand. He had 
mercy upon Fhanob and upon' his people, 
and the gradousness and meecf ai God led 
the irresolute king to turn back from Mb pur- 
pose, to break his word, and to refuse to let 
Israd go. &>A*s love and God's meny be- 
came (hen die cause, as we sayj nby Pfaanoh's 
heart was faardenedL 

Nov, strange as all this seems when we 
read of it in the Bible, strange that God's 
men7 ^ould harden the heart of any one, 
yet is not diis happening over and over again 
among ourselves? Are we in this respect a 
bit better than Pharaoh was ? for wonderful 
as it is to think of God's love luurdening tiie 
heart of tiie sinner, is not diis what is caay 
tinuaify takmg place amoo^ onxselves? For 
instance — 

(i.) Someoneofyou mayfaawconKnitted 
a great sin, one-wlxidi, if blown, would make 
you han^ down your head with diune before 
your chUdten, your &iends, axxd your neigfa- 
btrais. Yon hope that your sin may-not be dis- 
covered, and thatyon may not be put to rebuke 
before jow companions. If your sin be 
known, your place in their respect you fisel will 
be gone. You perhaps dread the shame more 
dian you. despise yourself because of the sin 
which you. have done ; but you. think it is 
after all the sin which you detest as much as 
the shame. You go day by day, almost it may 
befaourbyhour,infearof detection. And you 
pediaps pray that God would save you finom 
the bitterness o£a trial which you feel would 
weigh you to the very ground. You promise to 
yourselves ^t yoa mil keep^ from su^ a sin 
for the fiibire if God mil only save you this 
once from -wbat yov.- dread. Under this fear 
you for awhile keep, fnom sin, and. the temp- 
tation, when it comes back, has no power 
over you. The fear of detection is for a time 
more powerful than all the enticement of evil 
companions; or the soUcitadons of die fleshly 
appetites, or even the' suggestions of Satan. 
The dreaded detection does not come. The 
sinner is not put to open shame. God in his 
mercy saves him from what hewas s^-gssatly 
, afraid of, and gradually the alarm passes awa}^ 



EVER7-DAY HOMILIES. 



99 



And when He lias forgotten his dreadi then 
the old temptation comes back, and the half- 
repentant sinner falls again, and perhaps into 
a more grievous sin, just as Pharaoh returned 
to his rebellion against God* as soon as 
each one of the plagues had ceased. What, 
brethren, is this but. the goodness and ten- 
derness of God in his d^i^fs widi us be- 
comii^to 115 an occasion of fre^ sin. It is 
GodV love hardening' our hearts as of old it 
hardened the hearr of PharaoH. 

(2.)' Howcommon, again, is it for the sinner 
to harden his heart because God delays the 
hour of punishment and in his great mercy 
does not strilce Hhn down in the midst of his 
sins ■ Than, is-, he sias more -and more because 
of God's' love. He has read, perhaps, of his 
threatening^ against sin, his conscience re- 
proaches him when he falUi into sin, and at 
first He tremble lestr the threatened punish- 
moit should at aace fall' on his guilty head, 
fiut time goes hy, and nothing seems to come 
of bis acts of wickedness. God does not 
^ni^ him, or at least does not punish him 
in the vay in which the sinner imagined He 
would have punished him, and he grows 
confident, hardened,, as men say, in sin be- 
cause of the patience and longTSuffishng, of 
God; and so he plunges into firesh sin. TTiis 
happens every day, and is so common that it 
is not strange to us ; yet what is this but the 
sinner making the goodness and the mercy 
of God an encouragement for sinning against 
Him, aasd doing as Phaiaoh did, hardening 
his heart because God is more merciful than 
he feared, fuid because £fe does not imme- 
diately visit his' sins with scourges. 

(3.) Or, again, take the case of a man or 
woman on a sick-bed and in danger of death. 
Then rises up before his eyes or before 
her eyes the remembrance of sins, not 
indeed repented' of, but long siiice ftngotteni 
One by one they stare" the sinner in the face, 
and will rrol be hidden. With them' comes 
the tiionght of the account which he or she will 
have to give of the life that seems fasrpassing 
away,. " for we mast all stand before the 
judgment-seat of Christ."* Now he lecoUects 
the many ways in which he broke God's com' 
nuntfinencts; his disobedience- to God's will; 
his frequent acts <tfsin, open and secret Now 
too the jadgment of ^ch he once tlsought so 
little, or which fae po-haps despised, makes him 
tremble. He turns to God in veiy real 
prayer. He entreats his Maker to forgive 
him, to spare trim but this once, and to grant 
him a longer life. Now he makes promises 
— very solemn promises — that he will lead 

* Kom. xtr. lo. 



an altered life, he will be careful of his 
prayers he will not neglect God's public 
worship, he will break away from the com- 
Iianians who have so often led him into sin ; 
he will delight no more in polluting or blas- 
pheming or scofiing books ; he mil watch 
and he will piuy as he never prayed since he 
was a diild. He feels now how senseless all 
his sinnmg has been, and fae begins to taste 
of the pleasure of a soul free fh>m sin. Hie 
repents, or; at least, like Pharaoh he half re- 
pents; and then God senids deliverance to him. 
The sick man begins to get belter; he is 
pronounced out of danger. He no longer 
hangs between life and death and at length 
he can ga about his usual occupation. For 
a brief moment, it may be, he is serious ; he 
does, pray, he is not ashamed to be seen in 
God's house. As strength, however, returns, 
evil influences return ; his old companions 
come about him, old tiemptotions try him, 
and one by one his resolutions of holiness 
are for^ttcn, and he foils a^in, not indeed 
into his old sins, but into- deeper sin than 
ever. Ibrtherlast s^Me of die ialsefy penitent 
is woisethan die first.*' "What is thb, brethren, 
and' you know how comrnon a case dlis is 
Avhich r am picturing Kj you — wliat is this 
but the smner making God's love and God's 
mercy, and die taking away of the- evil' which 
he feared^ occasions fyr fresh sin ?' EVery 
Hour we may see Gods goodness hardening 
the hearts of men as it hardenoed the heart « 
Phamoh of old. 

(4;) Or we read' in the Bible- that "God is 
loymg, and' gnidous, and merciful, that his 
name and nature is love. And this^ which 
oug^ to make us fisar to ofibnd Him, as we 
^oold shrialt from' (Usobeying or o&ixdiqg 
a loving mother or a kind father, we too 
often ose as a means to lighten the- fear of 
sin. Wfe are tt>ld' of his readiness to. fbigive, 
and we- think that wickedhess canrrot be of 
any great consequence ; that wC have only, 
when the time comes — as' if we could be 
sure that the time ever would' come — that we 
have only need to repent, and to turn to. Him, 
and tasteof his love, andaccept hisforgivcness. 
Brethren, tins is- very common, yet when 
we do so, are we not doing as Pharaoh did, 
ami does not tile sight of God's goodness 
harden the* heart, and db we not ncike his 
love the excuse for fVesh sins f ■ 

(5;) And, only to take one otfaermstance-of 
the way in which too many tread in the 
steps of this wicked King of Egypt; do we 
not come to church and hear the threatcn- 
ings and the entreaties, the waxninj 



• Matt. tii. 45. 



ICO 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



encouragements which stand on every leaf of 
the Bible ; and does not the fact that we 
have heard these solemn truths from our 
earliest youth weaken their power over us, so 
that they fail to persuade us to holiness, 
and to quicken us against sin ? We have 
heard so often of God's love that we think 
nothing of it. We have received so many 
proofs of it that we disregard it. We have 
listened so oflen to God's call without obey- 
ing, that at length his call has no power over 
us. It enters our ear ; it does not reach 
our hearts : our privileges as Christians make 
us deaf to the voice of Christ because we 
have heard that voice so often. What is this, 
again, but God's love made by our perversity 
the means of hardening our hearts still more ? 
In what are we better than Pharaoh, when, 
because we know so much of God, and have 
had so many proofs* of his love, we harden 
our hearts against Him ? 

Now, brethren, all these cases which I have 
mentioned are common. They may be seen 
every day. They are all instances of - the 
way in which God hardens the heart of the 
disobedient ; that is, they are instances of the 
way in which his love and mercy and patience, 
and his keeping back his hand from the pun- 
ishment of the sinner, are made by the sinner 
the occasion of fresh sin. Many, thank God, 
there are who do listen to his call, who are 
moved by his love, who use the time He 
grants them for real repentance. All do 
not harden their hearts ; and this is a proof 
that no man, that none of you need to be 
hardened by the goodness and long-suffering 
of God. 

Let us not, then, any longer wonder at 
these strange words, "The Lord hardened 
the heart of Pharaoh." It was not God's 
fault that his heart was hardened. He bore 
with him, He answered his prayer, He with- 
drew his punishments. He gave Pharaoh 
the will to obey his commands, and He was 
ready to strengthen that will, so l}iat he 
might do all that was commanded and all 
that he had promised. It was not God's 
£ault if Pharaoh only half repented, and then 
drew back :nto fresh sin. Neither is it God's 
will now that so many turn awayfrom his love, 
and make the mercy and patience which He 
shows to man the encouragements to fall afresh 
into sin. Many, indeed, do thus abuse his love 
and mercy. . We see the instances around us 
every day. Let none of us then think that 
this history of Pharaoh is only the picture or 
history of a sinner greater than the rest of 
mankind. It is a picture of too many in 
all ages, of too many in our own days and 



among ourselves, and God — that is, God's 
love, and God's bounties, and God's patience 
still harden — it is the sinner's great sin that 
they do harden the hearts of his children 
still. May He, then, give us hearts to under- 
stand the lesson which we have recorde<l in 
the history of this, and of all other sinners, 
since they are written in the Bible for our 
learning ; and let us the more earnestly and 
perseveringly turn to Him, because He is 
loving and merciful, as He was merciful to 
Pharaoh in giving him so many opportunities 
of repentance. 

ir. — OPPORTUNITIES. 

" Then Jciiu tlx days before th« pusover cano to Tlctlianj. 
where Laurui wai micti bad been dead, whom He raisM 
from the dead."— Johw xii. i. 

There are many lessons taught us in this 
account of our Lord's visit to Simon at 
Bethany. The reality of the resurrection of 
Lazarus, who was " one of them that sat at 
the table with Him," * was made evident to ' 
all The consequence of giving way to anger 
is pointed out. Judas bad " indignation " t 
at what he took to be the waste of the oint- 
ment i^oured on our Lord by Mary, and that 
anger smouldered in his bosom until at lengUi 
it burst out into a flame which destroyed 
him, but not until he had betrayed his Lord 
to death. Then, again, there is that other 
lesson, that what is done really and simply 
for God's gloiy, however lavish the offering 
may be, is not wasted since it is accepted by 
God. There is, however, one other lesson, 
and to this I call your thoughts at this time. 
That is, the different uses which people who 
have the same advantages and the same 
opportunities m&ke of those opportunities. 

The gathering in that guest-chamber at 
Bethany was a marrellous one. Such a com- 
pany had never assembJeil iu one place since 
the foundation of the world. Such a com- 
pany will never be gathered together whilst 
time shall last. There was the Incarnate 
Word, the Son of God, the Lord of life and 
glory. Around Him who was soon about to 
be crucified for the sins of the world were 
gathered the twelve, his chosen ministers and 
companions, and with them was Lazarus, who 
had tasted of the bitterness of death and had 
gone down to the tomb, an<l after four days 
had agun been restored to the earth. There, 
busied in her offices of love, was the " care- 
ful " Martha,^ whose delight it was to 
minister to the Lord and to serve Him as 
He sat at meat. There, too, was Simon the 



* John xii. I. 



t Luke 



EVKRY-DAY 



leper, whom our Lord had healed of his 
leprosy, and Mary, out of whom he had cast 
seyen devils,* and who sat at his feet and 
listened to his words. God himself was 
visibly in the midst ; thie witnesses of his 
miracles were diere, the diosen twelve, the 
evidences of his power over life and death, 
over the body and tiie soul of men, were 
there in the persons of Lazarus, and Simon, 
and Maiy. Let us consider now the lessons 
given us in the lives of three of these — of 
Mary, and Peter, and Judas. 

Maiy, after her forgiveness, had minis- 
tered unto the Lord of her substance, and 
had, with other women, been allowed to 
accompany Him through Judea and Galilee. 
Because much had been foi^ven her, she had 
learnt to " love much." On her had de- 
scended the blessing which all ministering to 
Christ brinp with it She was allowed to 
give to Him that same token of love and 
humili^ which a few nighte after our Lord 
was himself to give to his disciples, in 
washing their feet, and when she poured the 
precious ointment upon his head He accepted 
her gift, and promised that what she then 
did should be for ever remembered as a 
"memorial of her."t And this great love 
of Mary not only purified her Keart, it gave 
her a deeper insight into the mystery of his 
being than that possessed even by the twelve 
apostles, so that when she anointed Him, 
die did it, as Christ himself said, for his 
buriaI4 She it was who stood beneath the 
cross when ihe blood of the Redeemer was 
poured out as a sacrifice for us. She, again, it 
was who, bearing precious gifts of myrrh and 
spices, went with his body to the' tomb ; and 
to her first of all the risen Lord appeared on 
the great Easter morning, and by appearing 
made known to her the truth of that doctrine 
which He had before declared to her, that He 
was " the resurrection and the life." § Her good 
deeds were not forgotten by Him, and He has 
kept those good deeds alive in the memory 
of his whole Church. Blessed was she in her 
simple faith ; blessed in her mighty love ; 
blessed in that strong hope which burned as 
a living faith within her 1n«ast 

And with her in the same chamber was 
'Judas, perhaps one of the family of Bethany, 
and so &e more indignant at " the waste " of 
the goods of his family spent upon that pre- 
cious ointment, the odour of which filled the 
house. And this indignation which the other 
apostles felt as well as he, but which the 
others, it would seen;, felt less than he — ^this 

" Uuk xvi. 9. i Hfttt. Sxvi. t}. 

t Matt. KSvi. la. 1 John xi, 95. 



HOMILIES. 101 



indignation was brooded over until it grew 
into anger, and anger went on until it ended 
in murder and despaii:. A few nights after, 
in the darkness, Judas, the trusted apostle of 
Christ, knowing where his Master was wont 
to retire for ^yer, led a band of armed men, 
and with a kiss betrayed his Master. He was 
not afraid, he was not touched by the love 
which Christ still bore him; though his Mas- 
ter, as if to give him one more opportunity 
for repentance at such a moment, called him 
"friend."* When, however, he saw the suf- 
ferings endured by Christ, when he saw Him 
delivered over to be crucified and noted his 
meekness imder the hands of his persecutors, 
then the hardness of his heart gave way, and 
he went and tried, but tried in vain, to stay 
the sentence and to save his Master. The 
first benefits of the sufferings of Christ thus 
reached the heart of his betrayer, and awoke 
in bis breast the beginning of repentance. 
You know the rest of his wretched history : 
he repented in part, but he did not trust; he 
saw the greatness of his sin, but he saw not 
the mercy and the love of Christ. In the bit- 
terness of his soul, despairing of the mercy 
which Christ was at that moment showing, 
and thinking only of the greatness of his sin, 
he " went out and hanged himself." i 

And there also with Judas and with Mary 
ih the guest-chamber at Bethany was Simon 
Peter, the foremost of Christ's disciples — 
zealous, and bold, and self-confident by na- 
ture ; resolute in himself, and weak through 
self-confidence. He, to teach him ''and to 
teach us also the weakness <^ man and the 
mightiness of God, and the need of reUance 
upon Him, was permitted to fell. In his 
fall, indeed, he was second only to Judas. In 
the oaths and curses with which,! taunt 
of a servant girl, he confirmed his denial of 
Christ, we see his weakness. He who had 
declared that, though all others should forsake 
his Master, yet would he never forsake Him 
— not only fled, but affirmed almost with con- 
tempt, " I know not the man." § The end 
of Peter might have been as evil as that of 
Judas, but he saw his Master's eye fixed dpon 
him, and that glance bruised his heart with 
the bitterness of repentance and healed it 
with its love. He went out and wept bit- 
terly, but did not distiuit the Lord's power 
and the Lord's readiness to forgive his sin. 
And the blessedness of this repentance of 
Peter has been recorded by the Holy Spirit 
for us as a lesson to comfort and to encourage 
the penitent throughout all time. 

■ M<tt. xxvi. so. i lUtt. XMvii. 5. i Slatt. uri. 74I 



1 



X02 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



Now, these three had had the same op- 
portunities, .the same advantages ; they 
had listened to the same teaching ; they 
had heard the same pambles in which 
Christ .had taught to all the practical 
trutlis of his kingdom ; th^ had companied 
with Him in his journeys of love throughout 

Judiea and Galilee ; they had witnessed all 
is miracles of healing on the bodies and 
the souls of mea; they bad been allowed .to 
come near:to his sacred, life^ving body, and 
had received the same grace.; and yet within 
a few days only they were to be monuments 
— one of the .safiiaent^ of Christ's love -to 
sustain the soul, the other two of .the frailty 
of man, and of the usdessness of all gifts of 
grace if the hard and impenitent .heart 
trample them under foot Mary, in her 
humility and penitential love, was to show 
the mightiness of God in streqgthaitng the 
feeble and in cxalring the lowly. Peter was 
to afford to all ages an eauunple of the mis- 
chief of aelf-confidenc^ and at the same time 
to give to the greyest sinner an instance of 
the readiness of the.Saviour to fingive and to 
heal ; whilst Judas was to be an esrample of tlie 
wretched consequence of anger, and at the 
same time of the usdessness of the most 
bitter repentance unless temjiered by the re- 
membrance of the love and mercy of God. 
And yet these three had the same grace giveu 
to them, they -were associated with the same 
divine Master, .they had listened to the self- 
same teadiing, .and had had the .same x>ppor- 
tunities. 

And is not this the case now ? Is the pic- 
ture not as true now as it was then ? Are we 
not often puzzled at .the sight of children of 
the same parents, who have had the same ex- 
ample, and the same. teaching, and the same 
advantages, who yet turn out the one.a com- 
fort to his parents, others a .grief and a 
shame to the mother that bore them? Do 
we not see persons brought up in . the same 
parish, taught the same truths, confinned in 
the same church, and partakers of the same 
means of gcace,and yet .one beeonung wholly 
indifferent to all religion, another growing i;p 
to be a hardened scoffer at God, plunging 
into all kinds of cormption, and becQmingan 
utter reprobate; whilst. here and there, thank 
God, are to be found those who continue to 
live very near to God, who rule tiiemselves 
according to his .law, and know the sweet 
amifbrt which comas fixan trust in God, and 
are able to live pure in the midst the .im- 
purity of the wcxld around them? And yet 
we often hear persons who know that they 
are sinners, and are ashamed of their wicked 



lives, and at times dread the biture reckoning 
and the sight of a loving God against whom 
they have so deeply sinned, say, " Oh, if I 
had but the advantages of such an one.j if I 
had lived among better people ; if I.had had 
other examples and other teadiing; if I bad 
not been so greatly tempted and in such an 
unusual way, then I am sure I should have 
been better than I am !" or, *' If I had fiswer 
cares to perplex and fill my though, more 
time fior prayer, more leisure for C^'s house 
and for self-examination, tiben I should be as 
religious as others; then I.^ould have had 
as great delight in drawing near to God as my 
neighbours, and should be.freer from sin than 
I now am. It is -the circumstances and op- 
portunities of life, the neoessities of n^-trade 
which are against me. Jt is all these which 
make me what I am against my own -inclina- 
tion. I have not had the same chance as 
others." Away with these mifietahle excuses, 
brethren ! God gives us all raudi the :same 
opportunities. We have all means of gtace 
sufficient for the Jie^ii^ of our souls.; we 
have all of us kiMSwledge enough .to lead us 
to God, and to keep us in the path of his 
commandments. It is not that oppoztimities 
are so different, it. is the use vAach we moke 
of the same opportunities which makes the 
sinner so different, from the saint. 

You have all the same Creator, the aame 
Redeemer, the same loviog Faiher, the sune 
invitation, the same .promises, the same Bible, 
the same Church, the same sacraments, and 
you will have the same Judge. -Let none, 
then, blame God; but let those who can't 
kelp knowing that they are sinners — their 
lives tell them that — let them m^e the first 
steps towards repentance asking where 
the fault lies, and by iaying .the .Uame 
upon tiiemselves. .God's call .is to .all — 
"-Why wiU ye die?"* Jf .ye die, it is be* 
cause .ye -will it. of jcourselves. God's linvita- 
tion to all is the same — " Make you cleao.'' i 
You have strength ; He gives you of .his own 
strength .to make you clean — wi^y .rail you 
wallow in sin and impuri^ ? " Cleanse your 
bands, ye sinners, and purify your hearts, ye 
double-minded.",J JDon't, thfin,s^, "Jtis,God 
has made me unclean,. and forces .me .to be 
' doubloiminded.' " It is you yourselves arhc^ 
in defiance of the opportunity of .living pure 
and consistent lives, have b»x}me evil .and 
have chosen to sin. This .is what .is meant 
by. saying that man has firee will. .He is free 
to obey God and to love Him ; nodiiag hin- 
dess save his own heart He is &ee also to 



Jen snii. tj. 



2 



MORNING MUSINGS. 



103 



fall awa^ from grace, and to give himself 
over to serve the devil and to live ungodly. 

The difference between the faithful and the 
disobedient son consists in the different use 
which they make of the same opporttmities. 
The temptations which try all are much 
alike. We may think that we are tried more 
than others, or tiiat the temptation is stronger 
in our case than in that of otlierE. If, how- 
ever, we knew the struggles and trials of our 
bretiiren; if we could only know how mighty 
are the solidtations to evil which they have 
to resist, we should have to own that the 
advantages and disadvantages of all men are 
much the same. One yields to sin ; another 
using God's grace resists ; one is steadfast. in 
his Christian walk, another falls away; one 
overcomes the temptation, another .gives way 
to it. In this lies all the difference between 
! the saint and the sinner. It is not that 
I both are not the children of God. It 
is not that both are not watched over hf 
the same untiniig love. Itis notthsU-both 
have not the same grace. Both are sons of 
the same Father, though one may abide close 
by the Father's side, and live for ever in his 
courts ; the other may ^ther "to^etiier all 
that he hath," from the bounty of his Father, 
and go into a far country, and waste his life 
and health, end mind, and the treasures of 
grace with riotttis companions, and sink to 
the level of the swine. If so, let him not 
blame his bad fortune ; let him not plead 
the mig^ness of his temptations, and talk 
of the weakness of human inature. Eirery 
instance ctf steadiastness which he 9ees.near 
him, every instance of uprightness, in those 
who are by nature equally wedk as himself, is 
a proof that suoh-accusHtioiis exe imtnie. 



Let, then, the history of the three in the 
guest-chamber at Bethany call us all to 
earnestness in the duty of obedience to God. 
We may, like Mary, sit at Christ's feet, and 
know throughout our lives the blessedness of 
his presence. We may, like St. Peter, by 
our lives even more than by our lips, deny 
our Ix>rd, If so, may we like him see our 
great sinfulness, and repent as he did. We 
may, alas I like Judas, betray our Lord — call 
ourselves Oni&tian, and 3ret join hftnds with 
the enemies of Christ, and like Judas at 
length despair of God's mercies and fall 
utterly away. In any case, however, it is not 
God's love 'that £iite. It is not He that 
makes a distinction between us and others. 
He giveth toall men liberally. The treasures 
of his grace are poured out upon all. He 
invites all to the rest which He has provided. 
He listens alike to the prayers of all his 
creatures. If any &11 &om gnce ; if-any fail 
at the last; if aiiy sin and despair and are 
finally lost, it is because when God called 
they would not hear, when He invited they 
would not come. It is because diey pre- 
ferred this world with its solicitations to evil, 
and the flesh widi its inqxntunate entice- 
ments to siorond the devil with his beguiling 
snares, to that " service which is perfect free- 
j dom,'* and to that happiness which has no 
I end. God open your ears to hear his call, 
I and prepare your hearts to Itsten to his words, 
I and strengthen you to use the opportunities 
! which He places in your way, and give you 
; that spiritual life now which is the earnest 
and banning of ^t spiritual Ufie which you 
may hereafter spend in his presence in the 
et^nal world. 

W. XUHirON. 



WORKING MUSINGS. 



X.— savl's conversion. 

** lotd, lAat wilt Tbon . bar* me to^ ? " — Act* ix . 16. 

jDRKAXHJNGfiiry, fareadiingxleath. 

Rides iDihasle a-fiery Jew ; 
Threats .upon Jus boastful:bxead), 
Ofthe bavock he will do. 

In the stem and rigid lip, 
In the brow that darker grew, 

In the hand's convulsive grip. 
Men may guess what he will do. 



Sees he not, >with kindling e)%, 
Levi's iS«»idBami,ifaow diay slew 

Godless featters,-lup and tiugfa ? 
So will Saul of Tarsiu do. 

Faster-.tfaan die leodon hours, ' 

Faster than -his steed he flaw, 
TowaBds the Ci^ hac^ towers. 

Towards the work he longed to do. 

Vain the purpose — Christ is nigh. 
Faithful to His faithful few ; 

Oigitized by VjOOQIC 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



lit has listened to their cry, 
Saul may no more mischief do. 

In these bright une&rtbly rays. 
Flashing from the mid-day blue. 

He must read, with sore amaze, 
What the Nazarene can do. 

He must learn, in deep dismay, 
' Sightless, quivering through and through, 
Whom it was he strove to slay, 
What it was he meant to do. 

Stricken by that tender stroke, 
Stricken dead, and bom anew, 

From his lips the birth-cry broke, 
" Lord, what wilt T/wu have me do ? " 

n.— LET us HOLD FAST OUR PROFESSIUK. 

I'll try do more to watch and pray, 
And walk upon the narrow way ; 
Better be deaf when Jesus calls, 
Than vex Him with my cbily falls. 

Why should I mock His holy name. 
And offer Him the sick and lame ? 
Better at once His }-oke r^ign. 
Than wear it with a heart like mine. 

No — God' forbid it — hold thee fast 
Thy high profession to the last ; — 
Christ pities our infirmities, 
And helps the fallen to arise. 

The mother watches by the side 
Of little feet, in fear and pride, 
How far it is from wall to wall, 
How easy for a child to fall I 

She chides him not when he is down, 
But gives new boldness by her gown ; 
Till twinkling eye, and merry lip. 
Say boldly, " Now I cannot slip 1 " 



So, when I fall, I closer cling 
To one all-healing robe and wing ; 
For, I believe, the Son of Man 
Loves more than any mother can. 

The way is rough, the light is dim. 
Yet boldly will I follow Him ; 
And after every fidl, arise 
More humble, teachable, and wise. 

nr. — THY KINGDOM COME. 

I CANNOT heal, I cannot hide. 

My leprosy of lust and pride ; 

And, were I summon'd, thus unmeet, 

To join the saints in Zion street, 

Now would my envy knit her frown. 

At one who wore a brighter crown ; 

And now, my sullen discontent 

On some angelic task be bent ; 

Still for this wwld my soul would long, 

Soon weary of the Church's song, 

Her sweet unrest, her holy care, 

Her yoke of love, and raiment fair ; 

How idly fells the prayer divine, 

" Thy Kingdom come," from lips like mine '. 

But, spite of sins which Thou dost hate. 

Before Thy Hirone of grace I wait, 

Lord, listen to me, day by day. 

Until I mean the words I say ; 

Upon this heart, bright Finger g^e, 

Spite of its treachery and pride. 

Nor leave it, till another prayer, 

'* Thy will be done," is written there ; 

Then shall I do my Lord's desire, 

With face of flint, and tongue of fire ; 

And never more shall evil thought 

Pollute the shrine which Thou liast bought, 

Nor passion shake, nor doubt molest 

Thy throne, O God, within my breast ! 

GEORGE S. OUTRAH. 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 

By THK AUTHOR Oi "ROBERT Holt's Illusion," ktc. 



CHAPTER 1. 




be taken cum grana salis. The Rev. Wil- 
mot Harcourt was certainly a man re- 
markable for activity, as well as for some 
other meritorious qualities ; still there were 
places in Sed^eborough that he had not 
seen, and people whom he had not 
visited. " Take another week, most likely," 
he said to himself, walking with rapid, im- 
portant, decisive step up Whingate, the main 
street of the sleepy little townlet. There 
were tiny shops here and there, each with 
one small many-paned window ; and a closed 
door at the top of three steps, mth a noisy 
bell behind it The druggist's shop at the 
comer was a little larger : it had two en- 
dows, each of which was probably filled with 
bottles and placards, but the dust and dirt 
gathered there prevented anything like cer- 
tainty on the subject. Still it was a respect- 
able-looking shop. The very dust was not 
common dust ; it seemed of the kind that 
gathers in Unused churches, iiv ill-kept mu- 
seums, and on objects of antiquarian interest 
generally. Nathan Dale professed a little 
antiquarian knowledge, so Mr. Harcourt had 
heard : he had also heard that Mr. Dale was 
ill. Was this latter rumour true ? he inquired 
of the boy behind the counter. 

The boy was quite a new boy, and had 

IV. N.S. 



but lately come ft-om a farm-house on the 
moor. He looked suspiciously at Mr. Har- 
court's smiling face, more suspiciously still at 
his shining broadcloth. 

"You're t* new Rector?" he asked, with 
threatening countenance, and in broad North 
Riding patois. 

" Yes. Harcourt, my name is. I heard 
Mr. Dale was worse than usual." 

" Then you heerd wrong. He isn't woss 
then ushall." 

"I'm glad to hear it," the Rector said, 
still smiling. He had a way of smiling under 
difficulties that some people used to think 
irritating. The greater the difficulty, the 
more persistent the smile ; and I believe 
certainly that it was a smile of pleasure. 

" I'm glad I have heard wrong," he re- 
peated; "still I should like to see your 
master. Would you mind telling him I am 
here?" 

" Can't leave t' shop till Thomas comes." 

"No, certainly; quite right," said the 
Rector, in cheerful tones. " Perhaps I had 
better go round to the house door. Is there 
one? Where shall I find it?" 

John Lamb hesitated, turned so as to get 
a better view of the dusty bottles, and laid 
his arm comfortably on the counter. Then 
he replied slowly — 

" I' t' other street . . . Down Quant's Yard 
. . . On a gallery . . . First door." 

Mr. Harcourt knew Quant's Yard — it was 
round the comer in Cross Lane ; and he 
soon found the wooden gallery — a curious 
kind of outside staircase, shabby to wretched- 
ness, and rickety to dangerousness. The 
whole neighbourhood of Quant's Yard was 
shabby. Below the gallery there was a little 
flint-paved square, with rows of wet clothes 
hanging to dry ; there were sickly-looking 
plants in the windows, sickly-looking women 
and children about the doors. Mr. Harcourt 
knew the children, and the little ones knew 
him. After a few words, cheery and tender, 
he went up the wooden stairs. There were 
three doors before him; some earthenware 
pans full of sooty-looking water; a baby's 
frock hung overhead, dripping upon his 
shoulder. 

Mr. Harcourt knocked at the nearest door, 
" Is Mr. Dale at home ?" he inquired, un- 
consciously checking his ordinary visiting 
smile a little. The small pale girl to whom 

8 



io6 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



he addressed himself had awakened some- 
thing of curiosity in him before. He had 
hardly thought to find her in Quant's Yard, 

" Yes ; he is at home," she said in a voice 
quiet and firm — perhaps a little hard. " But 
I am not quite sure miether he can see sny 
one." 

"Is he 50 ill?" 

" No; it is not that He does not care 
to see strangers." 

" I hope I shall not long be considoed a 
stranger in Sedgeborough," Mr. Harcourtsaid 
with his ready smile. But if you think I 
had better call again, I will do so. I can 
call at any time you may think best." 

A thoughtful, half puzzled look came over 
the plain, almost sad face before him, and 
the quick eyes looked away beyond him. 
Then a sadden Uush as of shame rose 
rapidly. 

**I beg pardon," she said, " I ought not to 
have kept yoa standing here. Will you not 
come in until I can decide. My uncte is m 
his workroom at present" 

"Thank you," the Rector said, threading 
the narrow dingy passage, the small slight 
: figure before hhu moving widi a grace and 
I dignity that almost surprised him. She sur- 
prised him in other ways — pethaps more by 
reason of contrast with her surroundings ihan 
by anything else. The contrast -was great 
! certainly. The room into which the Rector 
had followed her was small and low, and 
mean!)r furnished. There was a square deal 
table in the centre, hard wooden chairs 
ranged round the "walls, some narrow strips 
of faded carpet on the floor. And Nadian 
Dale's niece, seated near the window, dressed 
in a plain grey woollen dress of too recent 
make, was fiilly conscious' of all the mean- 
ness. And she was not above it, ntither 
wide enough norliigh enough to ignore it. 
It seemed to her that a house-philosophy 
would be quite as real and demonstrable as a 
clothes-philosophy. If vou sat and moved 
in a room that was spacious and high, was it 
childish to think that it would seem to you 
that there was more of space and height in 
your soul ? It was not luxury she wanted, 
but a sense of freedom and elevation. She 
had no dream of any " immensity of Brussels 
carpets and per glasses," but of apartments 
of an architecture IcHig gone by, of lofty 
roofs, and wide oaken stairs, and galleries 
where you might walk with yourself in the half- 
waking moments. Wanting all diis, having 
instead sordtdness and narrowness, -was it 
strange that your life should seem narrow 
and sordid too ? that your thought and emo- 



tion should be somewhat cramped by the 
sense of the four walls that seemed at times 
to come a little closer every day, after the 
fashion of the iron prison walls in the story ? 
She was in the habit of telling herself that it 
was not strange, that it was natural and 
inevitable ; that the meanness of the outer 
life was colouring the life of her soul. Perhaps 
it was. Certainly some infelicitous infliKDce 
was at woA there. 

But there was no trace of any sndi influ- 
ence on her face, at any rate none ttitt Mr. 
Harcourt coold pesceive. And he was not 
an nnperceptiw man. Hie low neighbour- 
hood, the narrow boose, the mean room, the 
giri's shabby garments, had made due im- 
pression upon bim, though he was not mrare 
of it, neither perhaps was he fully aware of 
other impressions tlut he was receivmg. That 
the fiice before hin wat a remarkable face 
he had seen a ilortaif^t ago, and it seemed 
more mnailtable now. As the sat before 
him, the afternoon mm etteaiirii^ m upon a 
mass of rich dark red hair, upon white dear- 
cut features, refined, eloquent, ei^eieive; 
upon a low, broad, intellectaal-locAing fore- 
head, he wondered to himself ii4iether people 
considered her beautiful ; bat this they cer- 
tainly did tK>t. And shie knew it, and was 
sorry for it. She was not a vain woman, nor 
a specially weak -woman ; but at the time of 
which I write she would have given much if 
she could have awakened some morning to 
find herself very beautiful. 

"I beg pardon, 1 think I understood from 
what you said just now that you are Mr. 
Dale's niece ?" the Rector said, breaking the 
sileiKx. 

"Yes; his sister's deughter." The words 
were abrupt, the voice a Kttle hard as before, 
and the keen brown-grey eyes were turned 
upon Mr. Hiu^outt's f^ce with something of 
mlfianct in them. Then she added, " My 
name is Jane Francis. My father died before 
I was bom, my mother soon after. I have 
lived ever since— five-and-twenty years — with 
Uncle Nathan. C'fst ioiU men histoire" 

" Not quite, I think," the Rector said, with 
a smile and a look of interest 

Jane was not given to blushing, but she 
blushed for the second time this afternoon. 
A tide of hot colour surged <fVer her Cace, 
her eyes widened slowly, questioningly, de- 
fiantly. Then she turned her head away a 
little, recovering from «n inwofd tiuiU with a 
good deal of effort 

Human nature was one of the young 
Rector's pet studies— he had more than one, 
but I think di«sranke.{^fai^hff^w^gy^ 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



IQ7 



he certainly had the greatest love for it- — 
perhaps because of his great love for its 
object. All his drawings had been toward 
humanity. He had studied books with an 
effof^ wondering much at othei men 1^0 
found in them ain^, and ends, and life-long 
fellowship. He could have no fellowship 
with anyUiing that drew him from intercourse 
with his kind. Circumstance, as much as 
desire, had decided for him that this inter- 
course should be of the highest — at least, in 
character^ instinct and natural predilection 
led him to hold that this h^lwst is often best 
reached by lower ways. 

He was beginning to find himself more 
interested than usual in the specimen of 
humanity presented to htm to-day. He had 
found a good deal that was unconventional in 
Sedgeborough, but the unconventional had 
been too often the uncultivated. There was 
a change here, and die dutnge was welcome. 

" We are forgetting my unae," Jane Francis 
said, turning to him again with abruptness. 

" I think you were heatating as to whether 
I might see him or not," :Mr. Harcourt re- 
plied courteously. His courteousness was 
being appreciated more than he knew. 

" I hesitated as to what I should do. He 
will not see you if he is asked to do so. I 
told you he did not like strangers — still less 
does he like clergymen. He has not been 
to church for years." 

"And you would Uke him to see me?" 
the Rector smrmised. 

" r think I should. I hardly know why, 
except perhaps that he is growing old^ and is 
not very strong. But he is not lu. He may 
live a great many years yet." 

" And he may not" 

" He may not." 

"And you have thought of his death?" 
the Rector said, the quiet look coming over 
his face that was always to be seen there 
when death was in his thoughts. " You 
have thought of it, perhaps wished a little 
that you could be certain that he were pre- 
pared for it?" 

" I don't know what I have thought, nor 
what I have wished," Jane said, with a cer- 
tain jar in her tone. " X am not good myself. 
Don't think because you have seen me at 
churdi once or twice that I make any pre- 
tension to goodness. I go there chiefly 
because of the sermon, and I very seldom 
come away without feeling disappointed." 

" Indeed !" Mr, Harcourt £aid, trying to 
check a smile of amusement. 

*' Why do you say * indeed ? ' " asked Jane 
sharply. "You are not surprised, or at any 



rate you need not be. I am not intending 
anything personal. We have had a pretty 
sharp succession of rectors here, you know; 
and sometimes I go to the village churches 
round about." 

" And always with the same result ? " 

" You are sarcastic. No ; not always with 
the same result, or I should oftener still wish 
that the sermon were not the inevitable part 
of the service it has come to be. Sometimes 
one does hear a man speaking because he 
has something to say — people can feel that 
he has, simply by the way in^ which they are 
compelled to listen. He may not be an 
orator. It is not given to every clergyman 
to have an eloquait tongue, a thrilling style, 
or a Demosthenes-like action ; but there are 
men with none of these things who can make 
their souls felt. Still, as I have said, these 
are the exceptions. I believe true pD^u;:hers 
are as rare as true poets." 

Hie Rector hesitated. There was a 
puzzled look on his bright, handsome £ice. 
He was not wondering whether any part of 
what this strange young person had said was 
meant for him ; he had felt an absence of 
personal intent — perhaps in her manner rather 
than in her words. And yet these words had 
aroused his attention ; not because there was 
anything novel or enlightening in them, but 
because they were spoken by Nathan Dale's 
niece. 

" But do you not think that something, 
much perhaps, depends upon the mental or 
rather the spiritual attitude of the listener?" 
the Rector was beginning gravely ; and just 
then there was a clicking sound behind his 
chair, a door opened, and a tall, thin, angu- 
lar figure stood in the way, a man of three- 
score years and ten, gaunt and grey and bony. 

Jane rose rather hurriedly. "My Uncle 
Nathan, Mr. Harcourt. This is Uie new 
Rector, uncle, he has cailed to inquire how 
you are to-day." 

Nathan Dale smiled, keeping two rows of 
white, perfect teeth firmly closed, and per- 
mitting his roundr closdy-shaven bead -to 
drop with a jerk from his neck. 

" Much obleeged." 

Still he stood in &e doorway, wxiidtled, 
brown, grinning, silent. The Rector's sam'r 
vivre for once availed him nothizig ; for once 
Jane's tact Corsook her. 

" Call'd to see hoo ah was gettin' on ? " 
Mr. Dale said, still grinning. The slTOBg 
Yorkshire accent surprised the Rector a 
httle. There was something not altogether 
at variance with his notions of a gentleman . 

in the appearance of the g^^§^j^ejif^O< li 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



"Yes;. I heard you were" ill. I am very 
happy to find that is not the case," the 
Rector said, recovering himself a little ; 
adding,."! hope I do not seem to intrude. 
I am anxiouSj very anxious to get to know 
my parishioners personally as soon as I 
can. But perhaps you are busy to-day ? *' 

" Alius busy." 

" My uncle is making a model of the 
Chateau d'Anet," Jane said, turning to the 
Rector with a look which he understood, 
and to which he responded. 

" Indeed I " he said, bis face alight with 
real interest and surprise. 

Nathan Dale rubbed his hands. To excite 
surprise was delightful to him. 

" You have been abroad then ? " Mr. 
Harcourt asked. 

" Yis ; ah've been abroad," said the old 
druggist, still rubbing his hands. *'Hev 
you?" 

" No, I have not, I'm sorry to say," the 
Rector replied, his pleasant smile and easy 
grace of manner coming back to him. " I've 
hardly had time for anything of that kind 
yet" 

"The Chateau d'Anet is a ruin now; 
perhaps you know that," Jane said, by way 
of keeping up the conversation. " My uncle 
is making a model of it as it must have stood 
originally." 

" Not originally," interrupted Mr. Dale. 
" Can't find out what it was originally. Only 
know what it was in the time of Diane de 
Poitiers. Only know that from Androuet 
du Cerceau. Quaint old book, very ; and 
very rare — description, plan, elevation, sec- 
tion — capital old book to work from. Going 
back to work. Good day, young man, 
good day." Then he turned back a step or 
twa "You can come and see the model 
when it's finished. Good day." 

"Thank you; thank you very much," Mr. 
Harcourt said, but there was only Jane to 
listen to him. She was standing with a 
somewhat troubled look in her eyes ; she 
did not sit down again. 

" We are obliged to you for calling," she 
said quietly, looking into the Rector's face 
with a direct but h^f-unconscious look, and 
bowing slightly. 

He could almost have smiled as he went 
away at the dignity of manner with which he 
had been dismissed, but he did not smile. 
Neither did Jane Francis, who still stood 
grasping the back of her chair, the prey of a 
tumult of thoughts — passionate, mistaken, 
contradictoiy. Why had he gone there pry- 
ing, noting, questioning ? Why had she heea 



such a fool as to give him the opportunity ? 
She hated him for his condescension ; his 
supercilious smile was a pain to remember. 
She had felt nothing of this in his presence. 
No ; because she was weak and shallow, 
and, like her sex generally, easily caught by 
a show of deference. The poet laureate 
knew well enough what he was saying when 
he wrote that " Courtesy wins woman all as 
well as valour may." But the new Rector 
had won nothing fromher except the beginning 
of a dislike — a dislike that would grow and 
deepen, of this she was quite sure. She had 
all her life had a prejudice, if nothing more, 
against people with very dark hair. Then 
her thoughts took a sudden flight ; but we 
have no need to follow them further. 

CHAPTER II. 

"Curious thing," the Rector said to himself, 
climbing to the top of the hilly street, " very 
curious; she never once smiled. I should 
say a smile would change the expression 
of her face entirely." 

He was still thinking of Jane Francis — 
thinking of her as he had left her, a calm, 
dignified little woman, with self-possession 
enough for a queen. " And a woman capable 
of thinking for herself, too," he added, " one 
might see that as well as hear it What a 
forehead she has ! And, really, red hair — 
I suppose it is red — is very beautiful. 
What a life she must lead, though, with no 
one but that singular old man ! Has she 
other friends, I wonder ? I could almost 
fancy not, though I don't know why." 

He was beyond the street now, in a shady 
lane, with yellow-green trees above him, and 
banks of primroses on either side of him. A 
little further on was the lane that led down to 
the Rectory. There were some figures stand- 
ing at the turn, three or four, the Rector 
thought, half-closing his eyes, as he had a 
habit of doing when looking at objects not j 
quite close to him. A few yards more, and 
he recognised his sister and her two stately 
daughters. 

" Really ! I think my sight must be getting 
shorter. I didn't know you. Where are you 
going?" 

" Where are we going ! Just listen !" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Rushbrooke, in her own spark- 
Hng manner. "Why where are your wits, 
Wilmot? Weren't we talking for half-an- 
hour at luncheon about going up to Duncote 
Manor ? Didn't ^ve ask you to go with us ? 
Didn't you refiise? But, however, you'll 
come now. I shall take no denial. P^oi^d^ 
hate going without you." Digitized by VJiOC 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



109 



" I should have liked going alone better," 
the Rector said, somewhat dreamily. 

*' I dare say," said the sister ; " but it isn't 
good for people to do always what they like 
best Life on those terms would disagree 
with us. It would be like a diet of plum- 
cake." 

Mrs. Rushbrooke was a widow, some four- 
teen years older than the Rector ; a bright, 
pretty little woman, whose animation and 
prettiness gained her credit for some other 
qualities that she did not possess. She was 
the Rector's housekeeper; and her own 
means, which were considerable, added to 
his, which were moderate, might have made 
such housekeeping a very pleasant occupa- 
tion. She had only two childroi, Cecilia and 
Elinor, two tall, stately, silent girls of nine- 
teen and twenty. Mrs. Rushbrooke, whose 
husband had been a Manchester cotton- 
manufacturer, was ambitious for her daugh- 
ters, and her daughters saw no reason why 
such ambition should not be gratified. 

Duncote Manor was about two miles from 
Sedgeborough. " Isn't it a long way for you 
to walk?'* the Rector asked of his nieces — 
perhaps a litde satirically, but the satire was 
not perceived. 

" I don't mind the way so much," said 
Cecilia in a whining tone. " It's the dust." 

" And looking such frights when we get 
there," chimed Elinor in exactly the same 
tone. "We never can have the carriage 
when we want it. I believe mamma grows 
more afraid of James every day." 

" Didn't James wish to go to Duncote ?" 
asked the Rector, with some amusement 

" No ; and it's always so," replied Cecilia, 
speaking with more energy than usual. 
" Mamma is training him to be nothing but 
a tyrant James doesn't wish to go out, 
therefore James is not well, or James thinks 
the horses have had too mudi work, or James 
says the springs of the carriage want looking 
to." 

"Dear, dear!" said the Rector; then he 
changed the subject, wishing, if possible, to 
avoid his sister's usual elabcnite and fanciful 
self-defence in the cause of what she termed 

considerate treatment of servants — considera- 
tion that usually led to gossiping over- 
familiarity on her part, consequent presump- 
tion and pertness on theirs, and an unpleasant 
termination for everybody. The Rector never 
interfered. He was much attached to his 
sister, and stood not a little in awe of her. 
Their relation had been as that of mother 
and son almost evo'ancc he could remember. 
The two miles were very pleasant miles. 



The blue April afternoon smiled on green 
pastures, studded with groups of misty yellow- 
ing trees ; the smoke curlexl lazily from red- 
Tomed farmsteads. Cedlia and Elinor walked 
in sii^e file on the narrow footpath, stepping 
with stately steps, dreaming, fretring, regret- 
ting. Theywere not pretty. They had wearied, 
discontented faces, and a trick of glancing 
out ' superciliously at the wayfaring people 
who passed them on the road. Behind came 
the Rector and Mrs. Rushbrooke, the latter 
growing a little flushed and fussy as they 
neared Duncote. "What a curious old 
house !" she was whispering nervously as they 
entered the long ugly avenue of stunted syca- 
mores. "So excoKlingly irregular — there's 
no symmetiy about it anjrwfaere. And built 
partly of bnck, partly of stone too — I dislike 
that Still itfs quaint, and looks imposing. 
And — oh, there's Lady Ursula in the garden ! " 

" And the Major, too," added Elinor, in 
properly subdued tones. 

They were still shaking out their dresses, 
trying to overcome the little perturbed flutter- 
ings of self-consciousness when Lady Ursula 
Falconer came forward to meet them. She 
was a tall worn-looking old lady, and her face 
was hard, perhaps stem ; but her grand air 
and manner, and her old-fashioned courtesy, 
were considered very impressive in the neigh- 
bourhood of Sedgeborough. She bowed gear 
dously, and held out a ^lall white hand, but 
she did not look particularly pleased as she 
led the way through the wide painted hall to 
her mcnning room. Her son. Major Falconer, 
followed almost immediately. He had not 
been with his mother when she made her first 
call at the Rectory, but he had called upon 
the Rector subsequently, having first seen 
the ladies of the family driving in an oppo- 
site direction. 

The morning-room at Duncote was a iong 
oak-panelled room, with a dim light coming 
through deeply-embrasured windows, falling 
upon carved oaken cabinets and chairs; 
upon a curious mixture of orange-and-brown 
paintings, and old engravings ; upon yellow 
satin-diunask hangings, faded with time, tat- 
tered, and frayed. Everything in and about 
the room was old and sombre. Lady Ursula 
seemed a part of it, sitting grim and upright 
in her high-backed chair. And the Major 
was not out of keeping with his surroundings. 
He was not an old man, though his hair was 
grey, but he was grey before his time ; and 
his tastes and sympathies were very seldom 
in accordance with the tastes and sympathies 
of other men <^his rank and years. ^ 

"We were so sorry w^Tg^9<j)^4tJi@i© 



no 



SUNPAY MAGAZINE. 



wlien you called," Mrs. Rushbrooke began, 
turning to him with even more than her usual 
vivacity of tone and manner, fluttering, as 
she spoke, into an aucient oaken chair. The 
Major bowed, and murmured something in- 
distinctly. He was a soldier, and had a 
soldier's courteous deference (rf manner to- 
\vaid women, but there were some women of 
whom he even confessed himself to be afraid. 
He had a certain dread of Mrs. Rushbrooke 
before he had known ber five minutes. The 
persistent nistle of her mauve silk dress, the 
restless play of eyes and lips, the voice that 
remiftded him at once of Arthur Cloogh's 
descriptioD of one who' 

" In her loftiest fligliU 
Gi^lM< tb* &stidio«u «ir with tho slightly nwrauttila ac- 
cent," 

All these things jamd* upon the somewhat 
too-tsensitiTe Major. 

The Falconers were not rich people ; they 
had never lived as rich people do^ and tbey 
were almost as proud of their pov«ty as of 
their ancient descent In £ut I an- oot sure 
wheAtt Lady Unnla had not come to tlunk 
wealth an inseiiarable oonoomiint of vul- 
garity. If sh« had any soch thought, it was 
hardly probable diat her acquaintance with 
the RnsMinxdces would alter the tone of it 

'* We should have returned your kind visit 
sooner," Mrs. Rushbrooke apologized, turning 
to Lady Ursula ; *' bul we wished to drive, 
and uafortraiately, James, our coachman, was 
not well^-he has not been well for several 
days. He ha» an odd kind of pain at the 
back of his bead and neck. I hope it's only 
neuralgia, but of course it may be rheumatism, 
and rheumatism in the head is rather dan- 
gerous. Anyhow, I thought it would be 
cruelty to con^l him- to drive in the sun." 

" Barbarous cruelty," replied Lady Ursula, 
in her gniff tone, and with a peculiar droop- 
ing at tiie comers of Tner mouth. Mrs. Rush- 
brooke, who was sufficiently quick-witted 
when not oxidized by flattery,, caught the 
expression, and caught, too, the meaning of 
it. A resolve passed rapidly through her 
mind that James's numerous ailments should 
no more contribute to I.ady Ursula Falconer's 
amusement. 

"Are you fond of driving?" asked the 
Major, turning his attention from the Rector 
to the Rector's nieces. 

" We used to be," replied Elinor in a sad 
tone. 

"It's so slow (living in the country," 
chimed Cecilia, in the same melancholy 
accents. "There's nothing to see but fields 
and lanes," 



" Some people consider the scenery about 
here rather good," the Major said, in a dry 
manner, and in a voice even more gruff and 
unmusical than his mother's. 

" We don't care much for scenery/* said 
the rooutnful Elinor. 

" Perhaps you take a Johnsonian view of 
the relative merits of town and country?" 
inquired the Major. 

The sisters looked at each other, and then 
smiled langnidt^ and uncomprehendingly. 

*'My dear girls have never lived in the 
countiy before," intoned Mrs. Rushbrooke, 
her manner fiilly compensating for the animar 
tion laddi^ in that of her daughters ; " at 
least, iK>t in any place so remote as this. We 
have lived ait Cheotham Hill for a great 
many years ; that is in the neighbourhood of 
Manchester, you know ; and our drives were 
mostly into the town. I like the country my- 
self; but certainly St Ann's Square is very 
nice. Do you know Manchester, L^y 
Ursula ? The shops in St Ann's Square are 
so attractive ! " 

"So I diould aaj; but I knownolhmg of 
Manchester," rejoined Lady Uisuh ciutly, 
g^di^ ssLsfae spoke at the thine costly and 
fashionable toilettes before her. She had on 
an old brown sUk dress herself, and she 
patted it a little with her small withered hand, 
imconsciously betraying her £^proval of it in 
a manner that was amusing to her son. 

Mrs. Rushbrooke still went on chattering for 
awhile, taking Lady Ursula's little snubbings 
meekly and playfiiUy, listening to the Major's 
attempts to make conversation, and resolving 
to scold the dear girls for not responding to 
his attempts. It was an uncomfortable visit 
for the Rector. He had no opportunity of 
saying the things he had wanted to say, 
and he was unwillingly drawn to join in say- 
ing thii^ that he would rather not have 
said. He smiled a good deal, and laughed 
not a little, being a man who could laugh 
heartily on slight provocation ; but for all his 
apparent cheerfulness, he was not- at ease. 
He did not remember ever to have seen his 
belongings at such terrible disadvantage be- 
fore, and he was glad when tea claimed a 
small part of his sister's attention. But it 
was not for long. " What a face I've got ! " 
she exclaimed, jumping up to take her de- 
parture. She had caught sight of herself in 
a tiny oval glass that hung over a cabinet 
She was looking very heated, very red. 
" But it's my ordinary tear&ce," she explained, 
laughing good-humouredly, and showing her 
pretty teeth. Lady UrsiUa coukl 
grandly, and try to contrdlicittt^^atii 



FOR mv*6> SASJEI 



III 



mouth. Hien the leam4akngs began. Th^ 
included numerous and pressing invitatiobs 
on the part of Mrs. RushbrooDw. 

" We do not care to see mi/eA aodtty.," 
said the little woman volubly, and lookiog 
up into Lady Ursula's, fece with a winnmg 
smile. " But I cannot help, for my dear 
girls* sakes, being anxious that what we da 
see is of the best ; indeed, we have never 
been accustomed to any other, I confess I 
was quite appalled for the first week after we 
came to Sedgebcwoug^ Fancy discovering 
that there were only three Cunilies in a circte 
of about ten miles wth whom we could be on 
visiting terms I It it fiKtuBAte you are so 
near. We shall b* aUe to cee so much of 
each other. And do, detr Lady Ursula, 
treat us without ceremony. Put up your 
carriage at the Rectory whenever you come 
to Sedgeborou^ ; and try- to covne before 
luncheon, so that we tOMy bave tbe pleasure 
of your company. And of cowwe my invita- 
tions include the Ml^or too. 

" Thank yoii, very much," Mid Lady Ur- 
sula, with anothor grandly courteous bow, 
but with only a douMful snile ; adding, " If 
Edward had not already retired from the 
army, he must iMive been induced to do so 
now." 

"Oh, that is flattering!" exdumed the 
apparently uoMispecting little wxman. " Did 
you hear, Major Falconer?" And the Major's 
bow and smile differed in no respect from his 
mother's. 

A few minutes later Lady Ursula, was 
walking in the garden again, leaning oa her 
son's arm. She was not in the habit of dis- 
cussing her visitors after their departure ; but 
this time reticence seemed to require more 
«fibrt than usuaL Her poor wkhered Oild 
face writhed itself into all manner of contor* 
tions, as if die senses of taste and smdl had 
been offended beyond endurance. Her lips 
moved at last. "Uodobred little syco- 
phant 1 ** she exclaimed energetically. Then 
all was calm again ; and the gardens at Ikjjh 
cote Manor as pleasantly attmctive as before. 

Meanwhile the Rectcuy par^ were walkiog 
back through the green lanes to Sedge- 
borough, the Rector absent and disquieted, 
Mrs. RushhEooke lively aAd elated ; scoldiAgf 
pettioi^ aod flattering tbe dear girls; cooi- 
grstulatiflg herself j ap^oving of Duncote. 

" That dear Lady Ursula 1" she exclaimed 
with effusion. " I think^ that kind of high- 
bred manner is so charmiBg in an old lady ; 
don't you, Wilmot? I often think dear- 
Cecilia's manner will be something in that 
style when it's more formed. Ajod tbe Major, 



istiTt he delightful ? Did. you notice what 
paiia be took to make an agreeable impres- 
sion on those naughty, shy girls of mine? 
They were quite trying. Yes,— we're talk- 
ing of you, yo« mdted cpeatures 1 How 
could yoti pretend fi» be so careless and in- 
differe»t ?" 

" Indifferent to what, mamma'?" asked 
Cecilia, with a bludi and a timid side-glance. 

" To what ? Don't ask anything so silly. 
To Major Falconer's attentions, of courae." 

" Tliey were all meant for Elinor." 

" Cecy, don't be absurd," said the younger 
mteTf blushing her rosiest red. 

CHMPTER III. 

It was uphSI woA at first getting tbe 
parish machinery into anything like working 
order. Everything had to be re-organized — 
choir, schools, cjothing-club, and coal-club. 
The Rector had never had so many difii- 
culties to overcome, and consequently had 
never be«B so happy. 

He was offensively happy, Jane Francis 
thought A mtmtb had paissed since his 
formar visit, ami. he had billed again at a 
time when her nnele was eii^s^;ed. Nathan 
Dale was in the shop this time, aod would 
be coming ip to h» wiockroom presently. 
The Rector had be«n told bf John Lamb 
that he go up.«(aftf> if he Idced. 

" I «e4fit to hjtve cftiled before; but I 
have been so exceedmgly busy thet the days 
have passed like hours," thf Rector said, 
sealing hims^ on one of the wooden chairs. 
Then he began to talk ci bis difficulties, 
smiling so radiantly aU the ndule that Jane 
found herself studying the nature of his 
smile. Could it be ^possible that any human 
bemg was so opostttuted as to find actual 
plcaiire in oppositioB? Was it really in 
human nature to <]jMM0s dbwifitlhr discou- 
ragementi^ diMppoinhnfnts, faMute, repul- 
sions ? Yet it did not etcape J«ae that he 
was talking to hei w Co one from whom he 
expected cooipreiteMion, if net sympathy. 
When she discovered tt«t he was expecting 
even took than thts^that he was actually 
asking her assistance, she turned her head 
slowly, raised it a little, and smiled. " Cer- 
tainly," said the Rector to himseii^ " I wa& 
not wrong in thinking that a smile would 
change her countenance altogether." Her 
whole face was lighted up ; the shadow was 
gone ; there was a kind of soft, bright amuse- 
ment in her expres^on that seemed to dis- 
close for the nuHsent an entirely new side of 
her character. 

" I thought," coatinuedthe ^eetw. "t^ti 
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113 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



I should like to organize a little staff of 
ladies for parish-work. There would be four 
to begin with, if you would consent to be 
one- — my sister, yourself, and my two nieces. 
That would not be a bad beginning for a 
place like this. I understand that there have 
never been any district-visitors at Sedge- 
borough." 

"So much the better for the districts," 



said Jane, without the smile, and with a little 
asperity. 

The Rector paused for a moment. " I am 
sorry to hear you say that," he replied, some- 
what gravely. 

But Jane had a most unfortunate habit of 
saying what she thought, even though her 
thought was wrong and foolish. She did 
think. She had an eager, hungry, restless 




Fage iD^i 



>rain, quick to perceive, quick to decide. 
3ut her ideas were not the ideas of expe- 
ience. If they were not gathered from 
}ooks, books had, for the most part, sug- 
;ested them. Even as the Rector spoke she 
vas thinking of "Vanity Fair," and Lady 
louthdown, who " rode about the country 
n her barouche, with outriders, launched 
)acket£ of tracts ampng the cottagers and 



tenants, and would order Gaffer Jones to be 
converted as she would order Goody Hicks 
to take a James's powder." It was this side 
of parish-work that at once presented itself to 
Jane ; and this side that she presented, with 
some cleverness of phraseology, to the Rector. 
He could hardly help being amused, but his 
amusement was not visible. 

" I should so hate the whole thing myself,* 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



Jane concluded, " and the lower down I was 
in the social scale the more I should resent 
it. Real, hungry, naked poverty must be 
sufficiently bitter in itself^ without the extra 
bitterness of useless exposure." 

"But why useless?" asked the Rector. 
"I was not. exactly thinking of a district- 
visitor as a rdieving-officer, mit even in cases 
of extreme poverty, surely the good to be 
done by relieving the sufferers would out- 
weigh their sensitiveness on the ecore of 
exposure. I have not found it otherwise. 
But we are taking [the most superficial view 
of the subject that we possibly could have 
taken. This question has a root as deep as 
religion itself, and it is a question that no 
man nor woman may dare to leave unan- 
swered." 

The Rector was growii^ impressively 

earnest. His provoking smile was gone ; 
i his large, soft, grey eyes had a reproving, yet 
I pleading expression. Some change in Jane 
I Francis responded to the change in him. 
I When she spoke again she spoke gently and 

inquiringly, — 
I "You are not meaning that no manner 
I woman may dare to refuse to take a dis- 
■ trict?" 

I "Certainly not," the Rector replied. 

" There is much to be considered before a 
I person may dare to undertake one." 
I Then he |>aused awhile, bending forward 
in his chair in an easy vay that was habitual 
I to him in his more thoughtful moods. Pre- 
{ sently he drew a small Testament from his 

pocket, opening it slowly and reverently, 
i "Shall I tell you what I do mean?" he 
I asked in a voice even quieter than before. 

" Yes," was the reply, as quietly spoken. 
I The twenty-fifth chapter of St. Matthew 
, was open before him ; in grave yet musical 
' tones he began to read at the thirty-first 
j verse, Jane listened with a kind of awe. 
I The words were familiar, but diere was 
I strange new meaning in them. This de- 
, scription of the judgment-day, given by the 
j Judge himself W4s in curious contrast to 
I her own vague, philosophic conjectures on 
I the subject. This was not the &i-off and 
' scientific destruction of a planet that she 
had contemplated while reading some clever 
astronomical papers the preceding week, nor 
was the subject softened fpr her by any 
poetic thrill such as she had felt while 
reading Worsley's translation of the " Dies 
free " in Blackwood's Ma^zine. This was 
real, startling, and near at hand, demanding 
her attention. She comprehended, as it 
were for the first time, the astonishment 



expressed by those on the right hand, as 
well as by those on the left. The Rector's 
manner grew yet more impressive as he read 
of the latter : — 

" Then shall they also answer Him, say- 
ing, Lord, when saw we Thee an hungred, 
or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or 
in prison, and did not minister unto Thee ? " 

"Then shall He answer them, saying, 
Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it 
not to one of the least of these, ye did it not 
to me." 

# i;t * jje * 

There was a pause, long and solemn. 
The Rector did not weaken the effect of the 
Bible words by any words of his own. 

And the etfect was one that was working 
greater change in Jane's views than she was 
aware of; yet had she been aware she was 
not a woman to give expression to any such 
change. The Rector might infer what he 
would, and he inferred a good deal, first 
from her silence, afterward from one single 
spoken sentence, — 

"I will not forget what you have said." 

This was all. She spoke gravely, looking 
with her large, honest, brown eyes at the 
Rector, but evidently thinking of other 
things. Was she dreaming of the future — of 
a life into which such work as that pointed 
out by Mr. Harcourt would come naturally 
and easily ? I cannot tell. Her thoughts 
could not be unhappy nor unpleasant She 
sat with her clear, white face turned toward 
the window, looking Aoughtful and peaceful. 
There was no sunshine to light up her beau- 
tiful chestnut haii. Dark clouds were loom- 
ing over the little town ; there was a hush in 
the street, and in the shabby room over the 
druggist's shop it seemed already twilight. 

" I think I hear my uncle in his work- 
room," Jane said presently. " Would you like 
to go to him, or shall I remind him that you 
are here ? " 

" Oh, I will go to him," Mr. Harcourt 
S£ud, smiling cheerfully again. He was begin- 
ning to be conscious of some peculiar jjhy- 
sical sensations. The room was certainly 
shaking under his feet, the windows were 
rattling, there were strange noises. As Jane 
opened the door the noises grew louda. She 
smiled and motioned him to follow, and, as 
he did so, the whole house seemed to be 
quivering under the roaring, whizzing, deafen- 
ing sounds. The mystery was explained when 
Jane opened the door of her uncle's room. 
The grey old man was bending over a turning- . 
lathe, an exquisitely-made little engine on the 
left of htm, a ncwly-erect^ .jif^^ ) 



114 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



right. The wheel was whirring, the steam was 
hissing, chips of wood were flying. " Uncle !" 
shouted Jane, stepping forward into a shower 
of wood. The Rector was half-bewildered. 
Was it library, museum, or joijoer's-shop where 
he stood ? There were rows of ancient, leather- 
bound books ; there were iossUs, flints, and 
fragments of Roman pottery. Suddenly the 
noise became less deafening. Nathan Bale 
was awaie of the Rector's presence, " How 
d'do?" he mutttxed, grionbg, dropping his 
head with a jerk. " Got a new gauge this 
morning. Beauty, isn't it ? Jones's patent. 
Sent to Birmingham for it. Five-and-twenty 
shillings. Not so much danger of explosion 
now. Jane didn't like the notion of explo- 
sion." 

Jane had disappeared, leaving the Rector 
and her uncle together. It wasi a new and 
not unwelcome thing foi the old man to 
have an intelli^t aa(i interested visitor. He 
explained the use of curious tools, some of 
them of foreign make. He exhibited the 
model of Uie ChUteau D'And^. expati^ii^ 
in his mmt jerky sentences, upon the splen- 
doiu: that must origuuUy have chanacterized 
that fine spedmea. of Renaissance architec- 
ture. Then, with a sudden movement, he 
thrust the model out of sight upon a shelf 
over the lathe. Great drops of rain were fall- 
ing upon the window now ; and, as the old 
man turned to open the drawers of a cabinet, 
a flash of lightning illuminated the dusky 
room, followed by the heavy roll of thunder. 
Nathan grinned. " You can't go yet a bit, 
young man," he said, with evident pleasure. 

The minutes passed rapi^y. Each of 
Nathan Dale's treasures had its own history ; 
and while the Recbor was listening, the storm 
was coming nearer. A mingled torrent of hail 
and rain dashed heavily upon the window- 
panes, the lightning flakes grew more vivid, 
the thunder rolled and craved almost un- 
ceasingly. Suddenly, while the clock in the 
church-tower was still striking four, Nathan 
rose to hb feet. "Tea-time, Mr.," he said 
abruptly. " Will ya hev a cup o' tea ? " . 

" Thank you," the Rector said, with some 
wonderment. Then he hesitaJied. Would his 
unej^cted presence at the table be as agree- 
able to the hostess as to the host? But the 
old man was threading the narrow passage, 
and Mr. Harcouxt was following him. Tea 
was ai^>areQtly quite ready. Jane was taking 
her fwice at the head of the table. 

" I was hoping you would stay," she said 
to the Rector, indicating, with a slight bow, 
a chair opposite to a pink-iaced boy with a 
long white apron. " Don't be shy, Thomas," j 



grinned Nathan Dale; "and don't forget 
there's no goin' oot to-night. Stepped ower 
late last night." Thomas Baines blushed a 
little pinker, and squared his elbows a little 
more awkwardly, as he helped himself to 
bread-and-butter. That was the only iam^ 
tea- and bread-and-butter ; but they were good 
of their kind. Jane sat placidly behind her 
tea-cups, pouring out tea, mioistering to the 
ethos, hiiadUng things with a certain dvntii 
ness of touch, and hushed and silent even 
more than was her wont Perhaps it was the 
terrible storm, the Rector thought The rain 
was still falling in torrents, the thunder was 
crashing, the heavy darkness was still brood- 
ing. Doubtless it was the stonn that awed 
her a little. 

There was an old clock ticking in a tall 
case in the ccmer. At precisely ten minutes 
past four Thomas Baines disappeared, and 
John LaroJs took his place; and at twenty 
minutes past the chair opposite the Rector 
was empty once more. Was that being 
business<Uke ? Mr. Harcourt wondered with 
a little thrill of thankfulness. He was leaxii' 
ing to respect Jane Fxaads intensely; he bad 
only admired her, and pitied her somewhat 
before. Six weeks ago he would hardly have 
thought it possible for any woman to be dig- 
nified under such circumstances, and now be 
told himself that he was in the presence of 
the most d^nifled woooan he had ever seen. 
Was there any peculiar grace in the fashion 
of her old grey gown ? he wondered, as she 
began to move about the room, her tiny 
figure flitting lightly and softly in and out 
They liad no servant then. She had begun 
to clear away the remains of the meal herselC 
She reminded bin of tvo lines of George 
Herbert's:— 

<* Who-svam* » nam w for Tkr Im* 
MaJEM ttuft and tb' actios fine." 

He was not sure as to what laws Jant might 
be obeying, but certainly there was some- 
thing hne in her manner of putting away tea- 
cups* Would he have admired her more if 
she had been sitting at a bad piano, playing 
worse music? he wondered; or would she 
have looked more gracefiil with a croquet- 
mallet in her hand? The very thought of 
these Uiings seemed inwnj^us, and jarred 
upon him as a ballad siwg is the street jars 
upon the ears of a man who reads an heroic 
poem- 
He had not been reaiiiDg a poem, but had 
he not been movuig for a little while as it 
were in the atmosphere of one? HadGeraint, 
watching Enid, the "sureet and serviceable," 
asahe 

Digitized by VjL- 



A PRISON WITHOUT WALLS. 



"5 



" Took bis cbargm to the lUll, 
* ■ • . « ■ 

AwA then, becaiiM tbeir ball moat also (em 

For kitcben, boiled tbe fl«ah, md nnad the boud, 

And ktood behind, and waitedon the tbice,"— 

had ^ felt the change in heart and brain, 
and the glamour of the change, as something 
that could only be indulged as ma indu^ a 
felicitous dream between sleefiing and waking? 
The Rector could hardly remember, but he 
took down the "Idylls of the King" when 
he went home, and in die soft, quiet twilight 
that followed the stortn he read the story 
twice ; first eagerly, then lii^erii^lyk It was 
a foolish thing to do, and somehow he felt 
that it was. It would, have been much better 
to try to get rid of any passing impressioot he 
might have unconsciously received than to 
have deepened and sweetened it in that way. 
One voice, one face, haittted him ceaadessly ; 
and his sleeping dreams wne even more vivid 
and dangerous diaa the waking ones tad 
been. 

And there was change in Jane Francis toa 
When Mr. Harcourt had goni^ her uade 



went back to his workroom, and Jane sat 
down, hardly knowing for awhile what to 
think. It could not be said that she w:^ yet 
altogi^her quite at ease about this new and 
pardaUy-known cleigyman, who had as it 
were thrust himself into her narrow life; bai 
she was no moK buidened witii any sense of 
irritation or £Use shame. She had been nus- 
taken ; this she acknoidedged to herself, re- 
membering her former burst of feeling with 
something of rq>entance. She iad seen him 
with very different eyes to-day ; and she had 
seen so much more of him, enough to compel 
recognition of the truth and earnestness and 
conscientiousness thatiras in him. And there 
was a certain simplicity about hiin, too, that 
she liked ; he said directly and without hesi- 
tatitHi the thing he wanted to say. And for 
all his smiles and radiancies, he was a man 
who could sympathise and understand. Cer- 
tainly she had been mistaken ; and diere was 
relief in feeling &at she had. She would 
no more be so quick to decide if any new 
penm shonki cross her path. 



A PRISON WITHOUT WALLS. 



HAVE OUT readers any definite idea what 
a Re£c»matoTy is like ? Do they fancy 
it is necessarily a grim, prisiHwlike plac^ with 
grated windows and lugh walls, where the 
yornig czeatures who, by force of circum- 
stances mainly, have ^en into vice and 
crim^ work out a period of dull misery — 
incesuut^ drilled and driven — by way of 
expiation to that " socie^," which wronged 
them by not finding access to them before 
they made themselves ameuaisle to the law ? 
Let our readers, if they think so, come with, us 
for a Uttle while. Fancy a gentle voUey sweep- 
iit^ away into soft, wooded slopes, over which 
tiie thin mist of early October b^ins to creep, 
adding depth of colour and beauty to the land- 
scape. For a mile or so,, we follow a road that 
winds up and down in most delicious way 
through avenues of k^ trees ; and suddenly, 
at a turning, we catdi, throngh lm>ad frin^s 
of foliage, a glimpse of a tower, and vriiite 
stonewalls — lookmg as tfaoo^ aknost fi'esh 
from the mason's handr— and, nearer, the 
frontage of a building in the early EngUsh 
style. From descriptions we have got, we 
(ajicy this must be the place we are in search 
of, and we make our way inside. This is 
easy. There is no locked gate even : we 
advance up the main path without question 
asked ot notice taken, save by a dog or two, 



who soon sadsfy themsehoea we mean no 
harm, and quietly retire. A beaubhU cluster 
of houses — set in the midst of trim gardens, 
where late geraniamB and dahlias stiU linger 
aioagside of vegetables and golden fruie&— 
stand within a few paces of ^tdi other, with 
what is dearly a ch^>el in die midst Ix»k- 
ing round, we see to the i%ht, at some short 
distance, another house simikr to- the one 
near us, backed by what is evidently a brick- 
fieid, for the kifai is smoking, and the drab, 
straw-covered ranges show coiiclnsivelyt and 
tell of work done ; then straight over yonder 
on the height is another house, and a Uttle to 
the right of it what seems a fanu-ateading ; 
to the left stili uiothcr house, with favouring 
screen of sheltering trees, and yet fiirther on 
there, nestling in a hollow, anothor, with such 
an unmistakable general likeness to the rest 
XhMX we fed it must have some association 
with them, though there is no wall, liig^ 
hedge, or outstanding boundary definitdy tO' 
mark them off to the- eye &om the neigh- 
bouring properties as we look. All is open 
and bet: of outlet as any &rm could be. 

We are soon joined by a gentkman who 
has arranged to lead us over the place, and 
we accordingly set out with biira for a 
stroll over it As we go, he tells us, with a 
touch of pardonable g^^eWy fefe^Ogle 



ii6 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



home was celebrated only a few weeks since, 
and that, of course, the outside aspect of 
things is not guiU so attractive as it was 
before the crops were taken off the fields ; 
but that as the harvest was good, there is the 
less reason to regret this. We pass lads from 
twelve to sixteen or seventeen, bearing varions 
commodities — active, healthy, cheerful-look- 
ing, — and come on groups engaged in stack- 
ing straw; white beyond them a second and 
yet larger detachment are engaged on a field 
with the spade, which is of course an im- 
portant implement, where, as in this case, the 
plough is dispensed with. We peep into bam 
and smithy and au*penter's shop, into shoe- 
making and tailoring shops, and so on, to 
see relays of boys, from three or four to four- 
teen or more, busy at work. Here are cow- 
boys attending to their charges, and others 
busy in other departments. Reaching the 
house on the height, we are led inside. 
School-room and dining-hall, loffy, airy dor< 
mitories, bath-rooms, neat kitdien, and all 
accessories are found in admirable order; 
and one little suggestive comer, not to be 
found in every house, gives the first practical 
suggestion of where we really are. It is a 
prison-cell ; for we are at the Redhill Farm- 
School or Reformatory, and sometimes — 
though more rarely than would be believed 
by most people — it is needed. The first peep 
into it gives a sudden chill, like a shadow 
suddenly falling on yoa in the sunlight 

The next idea which forcibly strikes you 
as you proceed on your round, is how town- 
bred boys who bad been forced into crime, 
and convicted, it may be, several times, are 
got to stay in such a place as this. You hint 
to your guide what is on your mind. He 
smiles, tells you that there are over three hun- 
dred boys in the farm, which consists of some 
three hundred acres, and asks you if you 
could indicate the boundaries. He enjoys 
your puzzled look as you gaze round, seeing 
nothing but low, ordinary hedges, and then 
points out to you the limits, saying, " Not 
much trouble to run away if a boy wants, you 
see ; but it is very odd that, with rare excep- 
tions, they don't want Andeven when they do," 
he goes on, " it is generally from the restless- 
ness that comes sometimes on boys anywhere 
— even at the best public schools — rather 
than anything in itself criminal." One fellow, 
he told us, after fair trial, said, " Well, if I could 
only get out for once, just to kick my heels 
and show my old friends that I'm free, I'd do 
anything, and never seek away again " — which 
indicates spirit, and shows that the material to 
work on is not all bad even in a reformatory. 



Naturally enough, led on by this topic, our 
guide proceeds to give us an anecdote of a 
recent American visitor, who was at first 
much puzzled in the same way as we were,, 
but after some reflection said : " I've got it. 
First, I guess the boy, ^o had meant to be 
off the very first chance, says to himself, 
* Well, this is a fine place ; I'd like to have a 
look round. I'll stay on for a day or two- 
and see what it's all like: as there's no 
gates nor walls, I can of course go any time 
I choose.' So he finds there's a deal to see, 
and day by day, as he finds plenty chances 
of going, he puts it off till he begins to feel 
he'd better just stay on and make himself 
comfortable." And our guide evidently en- 
dorses this view, and thinks there's a " deal' 
of human nature "in it; but he adds, " We- 
don't forget to malce it rather hot for them if 
they do run off, you know." And then, of 
course, that cell we saw comes into requisi- 
tion, and a boy may find himself confined 
there on low fare for three days or so after a 
good birching. 

As we walk on we are enlightened on vari- 
ous of the economics of the jilace : — how the 
family system prevails ; each of the five 
houses — called after their respective founders. 
Queen's, Garston's, Gladstone's, Waterland's, 
and Gumey's — having at their head !i father 
and mother, the former being teacher and the 
latter matron. There are about sixty boys in 
each house ; more than this it is hardly found 
possible to look after with such strict over- 
sight as is needful, along with the grtat free- 
dom which is allowed faer^ and which , is- 
found to be one of the most powerfiil influ- 
ences in the direction of real reform. There 
is a regular system of rewards, and everj-thing 
is done that can be done to stimulate worthy i 
emulation, A list of the names of the best- j 
behaved lads is each month prominently sus- | 
pended on the wall of each dining-hall aiid 
school-room, where it can be seen as the in- 
mates sit either at meals or at lessons. Nor 
is the reward limited to this merely honorary 
shape. In addition to a small wage allowed 
to each boy for work done, he becomes en- 
titled to one penny a week if he has beea 
on the hst ot merit for three months, .three 
halfpence if for eight months, and threepence 
if for twelve months j the money being kept 
in tmst, till stated times, by the master, who 
deducts from it any fine that may have been 
imposed. If a boy misbehaves himself, 
he forfeits the time won, and must begin 
again. Further, it is only the boys who have 
for a certain period been on this list who are 
aUowed to go on errands o^.^^/^^ag^^ 



f 



A PRISON WITHOUT WALLS. 



who are relieved from farm-work to enter on 
any of the several trades carried on in the 
I establishment. Holidays also are regulated 
I by this list, and certain advantages of diet, 
; Farm-work itself is, of course, the most 
i <iseful kind of training for those lads, most 
I of whom will emigrate ; but, in addition to 
die inducements which the learning of a 
4Taflt holds out to the boy, the thing is of 
economic consequence, as the work is got 
{lone chea^ and handier on the ground. 
Emulation is also kept up between the several 
houses by various means — one being a shield 
of honour, which is suspended on the wall 
in the chapel — a really neat, beautiful little 
place of worship, with tasteful reredos and 
several painted windows, presented by 
various friends, and by boys ^Vho have left 
the Farm and done well in the world — ^where 
the inmates of the most meritorious house 
for the time being are seated. A force of 
public opinion is thus generated and sus- 
tained, which has enabled those in charge of 
the institution to dispense with mudi of the 
espionage which would otherwise be neces- 
sary ; and the most is made that can be 
made of kindliness, and consideration, and 
study of individual temperaments. In addi- 
tion, little blocks of ground, attached to each 
house, are laid out as gardens, which the boys 
are encouraged to take an interest in by prizes 
given at the Harvest Home ; and these gar- 
dens, besides, really form an ornament. 

We presume it hardly needs to be satd 
that work and school alternate according to 
a graduated list of qualifications on the part 
of the boys. Some are half-timers; others 
attend evening school only ; and some, who 
Jiave reached their seventeenth or eighteenth 
year, and have attained pretty well all the 
-school learning that is professedly given, are 
almost wholly relieved from school attend- 
ance, that they may the more completely 
■perfect themselves in their crafts before going 
-out into the world, when they are provided 
"with an excellent serviceable outfit. 

We were told, and we believe it, that the 
transformation which a few weeks' work will 
effect on a boy is something wholly wonderful. 
AVhen the boys come first, fresh from the gaol 
or the magistrate, they have a hang-dog skulk- 
ing look, and a total lack of healthy colour : 
a few days' work on the field or in the garden, 
and a cluinge begins — a healthy flush on the 
-cheek and an open look are already to be 
seen, and by-and-byan upright manly carriage 
develops itself, aided, no doubt, in some 
degree, by the excellent drill lessons 
^through which they are put — thrice a week as 



a family, and once every Saturday in a general 
meeting of the whole Home. Marching to 
the music of their good brass band, it is 
a pleasant sight to see them, especially 
if one thinks of what they were and what 
they might have been. We can say that a 
more sturdy, manly set of boys it has not for 
long been our lot to see. 

And let it not for a moment be supposed 
that we have here picked cases, that are 
regarded as especially favourable by the 
magistrate or others. Owing to the opening 
of so man^ industrial schools and other 
agencies during the past few years, the ten- 
dency at Redhill has been to slip into the 
reception of the worst cases of juvenile de- 
linquency — tin now such cases as can be 
efficiently dealt with elsewhere are declined 
by them. At first the Philanthropic Society 
devoted its attention to the children of crimi- 
nals as well as to boys who bad themselves 
actually fallen into crime ; but, owing to the 
founding of such homes as that at Battery 
House, Winchester, the officials at Redhill 
regard themselves a& above that " innocent 
prey," and look for larger game. Every boy 
here has been convicted, and in some cases 
many convictions have been recorded against 
them. 

It is not much to be wondered at that 
people should at the first blush be rather 
horrified at the idea of having a colony of 
young thieves and criminals set down beside 
them, and fear that their more valuable com- 
modities would be no longer safe. When the 
society resolved to remove from London to 
the country, they had considerable difiiculties 
to lace in that regard. Indeed, they owe one 
of their largest donations to tiiis very fear. 
They had been in terms for a small estate, 
and had nearly come to an arrangement 
respecting it, when a lady presented herself 
before the treasurer and begged of him not 
to proceed with the purchase of the property 
next to hers. What could she do with a 
crowd of young thieves always about ? The 
treasurer assured her there was no help for it, 
and that the boys would be well watched. 
But she was not satisfied ; and at length she 
said that she would give j^i, coo if they 
would but give this land up and try elsewhere. 
They did accept the ^^1,000, and try else- 
where ; and the proper^ at Redhill was found 
instead, and has answered so well lhax the 
committee regard the lady's interference as 
extremely fortunate. And with regard to what 
the lady feared, how have things turned out ? 
No neighbour has ever been disturbed or any- 
I thing of value stolen — fruit only having sorne-j p 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



times been taken from gardens. Instead, the 
managers are inclined to think that the at- 
tentions of those near them sometimes tend to 
spoil their prot^g^s, whilst they have far more 
demands for labour in the way of assistance 
in farm-work than they are quite willing to 
comply with — notwithstanding that the 
farmers and others themselves uadertake to 
look after the bc^ I 

And if this may seem too much a rose- 
oofeur statanent. statistics may be brought 
fomard here. Let us say, however, before 
citing them, that die officials at Redhill do 
not, as at Mettray (wludi, as ve ^1 see, 
deserves to be regarded as, m one point of 
view, the model of this institution, aitd in 
another not), reckon only against tlMmselves 
as lapsed those who have been actually re- 
ported as reconvicted by thi prison officials, 
but do, with all strictness, themselves follow 
up and enter against their own side all cases 
whether directly reported from prison-books 
or not. And not only so. But the Redhill 
reporters make no distinction, where dis- 
tinction m^ht well be made. If a former 
inmate, led by companions, falls into a row 
that can by a policeman be constnied into a 
breach of the peace, or is found for once 
" drunk and incapable," that is enou^ ; he 
is forthwitii entered as re-conWcted, axid may 
remain for several years a false unit bearing 
undeserved tes^ony against the success of 
their training. But what do statistics say ? 

Since the establishment of the school at 
Redhill, in 1849, 2,565 ' b<^ have been 
admitted; 2,261 discharged; of whom 1,107 
emitted. In tiie four years ended 31st 
December, 1873, 338 hoys were dis- 
charged, of whom 173 anigrated. The 
result being ^t 91.41 per cent, are not 
re>convictea ; 6.80 per cent, are re-convicted ; 
1.77 per cent, are unknown. And it is a 
very valuable rider even to this encouraging 
list of figures that of those reconvicted, one- 
seventh have recovered their character, are 
now living honestly and doing well. 

Even suppose we accept the statistics 
witliout any qualifications from the above 
remarks, is this not a very remarkable result ? 
Poor waifs, cast into the turbid stream to 
sink or swim, were they not worth the trouble 
spent upon them with this grand result ? Of 
boys well-bom, well-bred, and well-educated, 
we fear almost as great a percentage do not 
"do well," and are a thorn in the side of 
their parents and friends. These ''Chiklren 
of the State," at all events, seem to reg ard 
well the attentions bestowed upon them, uid 
even in die economical point criT view, we find 



that care and kindness are the best of invest- | 

ments. I 
But we return for a moment to our statistics, j 
To bring the figures just given close to the 
comprehension even of die cursory reader, 
and at the same time to show what a valu- ' 
able agent emigration is in the securing of 
this grand result, let us quote the words of ' 
Mr. Walters, the Chaplain, spoken at the last , 
" Harvest Home :"— | 

" Speaking to the friends sround him right snd 
led, laths than to the boys, he would tell them what 
had been the results ia three yean to December, 1873. 
Of the two hundred and &uy-four discharged, one ' 
hundred and thiity-eight emigrated, and one hundred 
and sixteen got emfdoymeot at home. Of all tliese 
caBes ninety per cent were not reconvicted, «^t 
and a quarter per oent. were ve-convicted, and not 
quite two per cent, were unknown. That was, sup- 
posing that in 1870, one hundred boys were seated 
Against that wall, and all went to Canada, the result 
would be that mp to tUs time «nly three would have 
disapp<rinted them, while liimlj im 11 would be living 
honestly, never b^ng in prison, and most of them 
respectable, and many of tnem married, and some of 
them not only family men, but farming land of their 
own. Now, supposing ^ere were one hundred boyt | 
on the other side of the table who remained at home, 
the result would be that not three, but fifteen would 
have fallen back into prison, so it was tttsy to see the 
differocebetweenhomedisponlsandemigration. He ' 
was glad to be idile to give so good an account of the 
school, and to say that in the course of seventeen years 
be was never able to record such good resulu, for pre- 
viously so small a per-centage of relapses as eight and 
a qimrter per c«it. had never been reached, though in , 
the previous year it vas only ci^t and three-quarters — 
that was to say that only_ eight hoys out of eveiy hun- 
dred had relapsed into crime. It was the boys who had 
behaved thoroughly well in the school who were the 
most prosperous in the worid, so that if they could give 
a satinactoty acooontof the fellovs in the school, Uiey 
would be able to ^rca satisfikctory tccomt of them 
when they went out in the woild. He could go on 
talking for a long time about incidents in the school. 
Two of the ibnnei inmates had figared in the Asfaantee 
war, and some yeaiB ago a boy from Gladstone's came 
back with a silver medal for saving a number of 
lives. One boy named Hill had taken one hundred 
and fot^ acres <^ land in Vennont, and he and his 
lm>ther, who also had been in tbe school, w«l«d it 
together. He now wrote to him {Mr. Walters) to 
teilhint he was mairied, and liad a babysevoi months 
old. There was one feature in the conduct of the [ 
boys to which he would allude, for he did not wish 
his friends present to go away under die impression 
the boys wen all black die^ OntheuthofAueost 
a hay-stack had cau^t &e torn over-heating, and he 
was bound to mention the great encouragement which 
he and all others connected had Feceived from the 
conduct of the boys on that occasion. In the pour- 
ing rain they stood thae in two relays of thirty-eight ' 
bojrs each, ready to work the engine when it arrived from ; 
Rdgate, and never was he more impreased than by j 
the energy and patience &eie lads exhibited. If they 
could put that ^irit into all the boys, he had no fear 
but tluit there mnld be no relapses at all. It was 
only right that he should speak of the boys, and he 
hoped they would remember there were other things 
besides haystacks on fire which called for heroic ecu- ' 
rage and {Mticnt endnanoe." 

ni, , 11,,. M I,,, Cru:^Q]i 



I 



I Though in honesty, it must be said, that 
I the impTisonments and birchings had some- 
j what increased in 1873, yet during eleven 
* months of the year there Iwd been no deser- 
tions^ and only two in the whole year, a very 
' happy condition of matters^ more espe- 
; cialiy that this period was sigtMlised by 
peculiar progress gCBcrally. Now we turn 
to other aspects of the statistics. We 
find that seventy-five boys were admitted in 
187^— 4he bulk of Uiem from the coimties of 
Kent, Middlesex, and Surrey. Of these 
twenty-one had been convicted only once, 
and fifty-three more than once, their crimes 
in the bulk of the cases, theft Of the 
fif^-three who bad been more ttian once 
coBvicted, the parents of the majority 
were either dead, or were themselves criminal 
or of bad chaiacter. Of the seven^>four, 
nineteen could neither read nor write ; four- 
teen could read only very imperfectly, twenty- 
three could read aad write imperfectly, and 
eighteen could read or write fitiriy, but not 
one of tin serea^-four could read and write 
well;^ and seventeen did not even know the 
alphabet The terms of detention were : 
ninelcH' three years, twenty^wo for four years, 
and fotty-three for five years. Their ages on 
admission were: eight fiom ten to twelve, 
thirty-three from twelve to fourteen, thirty- 
three frffln fourteen to sixteen. Thirty-six 
had been twice convicted, eleven three times, 
two four times, two five times, one seven 
times, and one ten times. The educational 
state of the school on December 31st, 1873, 
was this: one hundred and two could read 
and write well, one hundred and ten &irly, 
ninety-five imperfectly, and one could not 
read or write at aU. 

The whole histmy of the Philanthropic 
Sodety's RefOTmatory School is a practical 
testimony in favour of the sepazate or £unily 
system, whidi is now so dosdy associated 
wiA the nnne of ^e great German, Wichem, 
at the Hamburg Rauhe Haus ; while it de- 
monstrates the soundness and the general 
applicability of the great principle which M. 
de Metz first systematic^ly applied at the 
famous French Mettray Agricultural Colony, 
This principle is, that there is no such resto- 
sative to h«Uth and self-respect and morality 
as the primitive labour of cultivating the 
earth, especially amongst the young. Well 
mi^t M. de Metz, when, during the re<%nt 
mnco-Oennan War, he visited Redhill a 
second time, exclaim, when looking over it 
from the height near the central building, 
Un ^rand dieveloppment I" It has been a 
long time in developing into its present com- 



119 



plete fonn, however, and is an instance of the 
advantages of wise delay and prudent return 
to *' first thoughts." It was founded in 1 788', 
when three or four cottages were hired in 
Hackney, then a mere suburb, and teachers 
and superintendents placed over them. Un- 
happily this system was, after some years, in- 
terrupted for an associated institution on a 
larger scale, located on a plot of ground in 
St Geo^Vin-the-Fields. Here the plan of 
more rigid classification and division was at- 
tempted, the primary broad leading line being 
a "R^<irm'* or preparatoiy school, and a 
mantr&ctory, to which Uie children in the 
Reform were transferred when they had 
shown some degree of improvement. This 
was made the more necessary, as at that rime 
the society paid attention to Uie unconvicted 
children of criminals, both boys and girls, as 
well as to juveniles who had actually fallen 
into crime. In z8o6 it obtuned a special 
act of incorporation from the legislature, and 
in return rendered service by receiving 
juveniles from Millbank and other prisons. 
The schools continued in this form at St 
Geo^e's-in-the-Fieids for neariy forty years, 
when, in 1845, owing to new agencies coming 
into operation, the society j^iandoned their 
attention to the children of convicts, to con- 
centrate their strength on the reformation of 
criminal boys. In 1848, a deputation of the 
committee visited the French Mettray, the 
result being that, with some modifications — 
chiefly in the way of subduing the details of 
military order introduced— -it was resolved 
to form and to conduct such a home in Eng- 
land, with agriculture as the staple employ- 
ment A special committee was appointed, 
and, after some difficulty, a suitable rite was 
found. " In less than nine months from the 
time of projecting this scheme, ;£'3,5oo were 
raised towards the necessary expenses of the 
undeitakii^, and Her Majesty and Prince 
Albert were so interested, that His Royal 
Highness undertook to lay the first stone of 
the new institution, whidi he accordingly 
did at Redhill, on the 30th of April, 1849, 
where the socaetj' had purchased a fhsehold 
estate with the proceeds of the sale of its 
London property, and the liberal donations 
of its friends." 

While all scope possible is given to the 
Family system, some centralisation is of 
course essential There is a general matron, 
who receives and distributes lUl store o{ pro- 
visions, beddu^ and clotiiing, and supep 
intends ibe general domestic arrangements. 
There is one baker for the whole institution, 
who, asristed by 'two boys, daily provides aM 



A PRISON WITHOUT WALLS. 



120 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



the houses with bread, and' makes suet pud- 
dings, which serve as dinners twice a week. 
Besides a small sick-room in each of the 
houses, there is a central infirmary near the 
chapel — most admirably contrived and venti- 
lated — where the sick boys are sent who re- 
quire the attentions of the medical officers 
and nurse. There is also one laundry for all 
the houses, attached to one of the houses, 
where, under a laundress, the boys do the 
school washing every week. The boys meet 
at drill once a week, and at chapel every 
day ; and thus a common life, and interest and 
sympathy, are maintained. Mr. Trevarthen, 
the secretary — to whom we are indebted for 
much trouble taken, and information most 
readily and pleasantly comfnmiicated to us — 
thus writes of the chapel services in a sketch 
of the " Principles and Working of the 
Society : 

"The free nse and teaching of the Bible, with 
hymns and prayers in their own langnage, give the 
Managers of Refonnatorie* in England a very power- 
ful source of penooal influence. Any one who visits 
o^Fann School and sees the boys (now upwards of 
three hundred in number) in chapel, or in their ordinanr 
devotional exercises, must be struck at the individual 
attenUon and interest which they manifest. Kindness 
and patience, constantly and assiduously exhibited in 
manner and action, attach the boy to his instructor, 
and make htm feel him to be fat; friend. Justice 
appeals to that sense of Right anid Wrong which is 
more or less in every English Jad, and awakens the 
principle oiDuty,which gradually leads him to choose 
the good and refuse the evil because he ought. Em- 
ployment—not too severe, yet continuous and varied 
—occupies the mind and distracts the thoughts from 
then formei vicious and unworthy objects, and, when 
coupled with small wages or rewards, enlists the lad's 
self-mterest as he gradually feels himseir becoming 
the sell-sustaining dnd-ind^wnderrt man." 

It will readily occur to any one that the 
labour which the Society takes upon itself in 
the eventual disposal of the boys, and the 
looking after them when they have left the 
school, is as important and as arduous as the 
actual training and teaching whilst there ; nay. 
It is in one respect even more so, inasmuch 
as It IS more difficult. Yet upon it, to a 
very large extent, depends the whole success 
of their enterprise. The Society claims to be 
judged by results— by the good behaviour of 
the boys in the woridj and it may well and 
fairly solicit from the British people, for whom 
It does, and has done, so important a work, 
liberal assistance to do justice to itself. Now, 
It turns out that emigration, though four times 
deartt" at first, is eventually four times cheaper 
than home disposal— where the temptations 
set before the young lad are so much strongei 



than abroad. This is the manner in which ' 
Mr. Walters brings out this point : — | 

' " Within the ten years from 1858—68, we reduced 
the cost of emigraUon bom£zi i^. to£ti Sr. pa ; 
boy. The present cost of emigratiott to Canada is i 
about 10 guineas per boy, of home disposals it is 
about £2 lot.; mv last returns show that our loss of , 
emigrants by relapse into crime is about six per cent., 
and our loss of home disposals about twenty-four per ' 
cent. : so that, financially, emigration is now about four 
times as costly as home disposal, but morally, home 
disposal ia fotu- times as costly as emigration. .... 

*• Work ao costly as emigraticm, even after all our 
economy, so necessary, as the very key-stone of our | 
operations, and attended by such marked, continuous, 
and growing success, demands and deserves every ' 
effort to maintain it in vigour and efficiency. I am 
glad to say that the counties and boroughs, from 
which we receive boys, generally appreciate our I 
desire to send abroad as many ss, in our judgment, ' 
need this mode of disposal, and so the expenses o( 
the majority of onr emigrants are provided for. But 
in the ten years to which this paper refers, the Philan- 
thropic Society has spent nearly 2,50c of its own 
funds in this way alone, chiefly on bcws sent to us 
from the London Police Courts ; and although these 
demands upon us have very greatly diminished in the I 
last five yeais, yet similar cases are continually occur- ' 
ring from time to time, which our own diminished I 
resources are inadequate to meet, and these cases are 
now on the increase ^in." 

And Mr. Trevarthen, in the sketch fi-ora 
which we have already quoted, thus supple- 
ments Mr. Walters ;— 

«' Sfltisfiictoty as have been the results ol the work, 
much greater success would, doubUess, be attained 
were funds forthcoming more plentifully to assist in 
the eventual disposal of the boys. It is not enough ! 
to tnira a boy in improved habits of life and teach him '. 
higher views of his duty and privileges: very much, I 
indeed, depends on the sphere in which he is after- ' 
wards placed, and heuce the greatesi importance is I 
always attached to the mode of disposal which has to 
be adopted when a boy is about to leave the scUooI, 
and eveiy eflOTt is used to give deserving lads a good I 
start m life, by finding them suitable employment * 
either by emigration or otherwise. 

"In the last three years £b,(,i7 has been expended 
by the ^^oclety m the training and dbposal of boys 
(over and above payments received from the Treasuiy, 
Counties, &c.) from its own resources raised by Farm 
and Bnckmakmg profits, subscriptions, iScc. (omitting 
legacies), tUe mdustrial profits amounting to /"a, 105 
while the greatest economy consistent with efficiency 
IS exercised ra the working and management of uie 
institution as shown by the nett cost per head 
which for the year 1871 was 18 Of. 2^, with an 
average number m the school of three hundred and 
lour throughout the year." 

We do not need, surely, to do more than 
to recommend to those who have means to 
bestow on good objects the claims of the 
Philantiiropic Society, who* work at Redhtll 
is one of the most touchmg and most interest- 
ing we have ever visite<l. 

H. A. PAGE. 



Goog le 



THE COMPANIONS. 



Z2I 



THE COMPANIONS. 



■F\EAR Jessie, yoo remember 

How oft we roamed together 
All thro' the rrigrant woodland 
In the sunny summer weather ; 

Oryou'd sit and watch me angle, 
With a crooked pin for hook. 

That was often in a tangle, 
And I blamed the stony brook. 

Fall patient, yon woold guide me 

To set my tackle clear ; 
Then, sitting down beside me. 

Would coonsel and would cheer. 



For you were always hopeful 
Of the prize that seldom came ; 

You were constant to my wishes, 
And most patient of my blame. 

And often when I wandered 
With the other boys to play, 

And found how they wouM wrong me. 
Yon were more " my own " next day. 

You were wholly mine and cherished 
In the bond of childhood meet. 

There was none to cheer and help me. 
Like to yon, my sister sweet. 



Yon ever were my teacher — 

Unconscious of the part — 
The lessons of your gentleness 

Have dwelt within my hearty 

And been a gracious presence 

To keep me oft from wrong, i 
And taoglit me how " divine it is 

To snner and be strong." 

Your earnest, loving prayers, I feel. 

Are with me as I go 
With crowding hosts to foreign lands 

To meet a cruel foe. 

rv. N.s. 



The love of hearts like yours 
Is the strongest link to bind 

To the Good and Trae and Right 
In Uie lore of all mankind. 

And for the service due. 

Which to God on high we give, 
There is no helper such 

As in hearts like yours to live. 

In battles ye can Bght, 
Tho' ye never stir abroad ; 

Ye are mighty, with the strength 
Of the servants of our God. 

9 



122 



SUNDAY 3MAGAZIN£. 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



II. — THE GREAT LAYMAN. 



IN the religious histrorjr of the fourteenth 
century, we find a mysterious figure, who 
is never mentioned by name, seldom even 
appears upon the stage of history, but exerts 
a great and widespread influence. Men of 
different countries, of different professions, 
learned and unlearned, priests and laymen, 
agree in their ven^ation for him, and their 
implicit obet^ence to his commands. He is 
usually spoken of by others as the " Great 
Friend of God," but in those of his writings 
that have come down to us, he seems to pre- 
fer for himself tbe title of tte I^rman." He 
was neither priest nor vacmk; he did not 
preach ; he was not learned, he did not 
even understand Latin ; but he mat bare 
had more than moat men the gift of persDosl 
influence^ and he is chiefly known timnigh 
the men over whom he exercised that infiti- 
ence. Of these men, the greatest was Tauler, 
and the beat known incident in the life of the 
Great Layman is his meeting wi^ the Stias- 
butg preaciier, which resulted in sudk a te- 
markai^ cl mn ge i n TixfUsT'^ life and preacWng. 

Till within the Uut Sew years nothing more 
was known of the La^ian than that thoe was 
such a person ; botGenaan reaeazdi has <&- 
cowred, what few q£ bis contnnpoiaries 
knewy that Tauler's m y ae rip iia visitor utas 
none other than thia mysterious layman, and 
has also been able to tell us something about 
his life and work. Frofeaaor Schmidt;, of 
Strasbiug, found in the celebrated lifaiary 
there some ancient docnments which had be- 
longed to an old convent of the Knij^ of 
St. John. Among these documents he dis- 
covered die aiready wellrknown aoomnt of 
Tauler's coaveraon, and fhrt^ eramhiation 
disclosed the inten e atiiiy fict that tiie gnatax 
part of tiiGm sefbxsd to tibc ^Lajntnaa" who 
had visited Tauler. Thee wcic IstfcExs from 
him to varions friends, several reUgions books 
which he had sent to his friends in the con- 
vent, and which are ^nerally in a biographi- 
cal form, giving either portions of his own 
history, or accounts of men whom he had 
met and influenced, besides accounts both by 
himself and others of the brotherhood which 
he gathered roxmd him, whose members went 
by the name of the Friends of God. It is a 
strange fact that in all the documents relating 
to this great religious teacher his name is 
never once mentioned. He is called, as I 
have said, either "the Layman" or "the Great 
Layman," or "the Great Friend of God in the 



Oberland ; " in the quaint old Strasburg Ger- 
man it runs thus, "der grosse Gottes frunt 
in Oberiant." He seems always to have been 
surrounded with a considerable amount of 
mystery, partly perhape to heighten the im- 
pression he made on his followers, but doubt- 
less also to avoid the danger of being seized 
and punished as a heretic^at. diat dme the 
probable fate of any man who thoa^t and 
acted for himself in religious mattexs as did 
" the Great Friend of God." 

Professor Schmidt has, however, beea able 
ta identify " the layman " of diese old docu- 
ments widi Nicolas of Badi^ wfaa is more 
than once moitiaoed as a heixrticai leader, 
and who was finally burnt at the stake at 
Vienna. Ahnost ak we know of Siwrias's 
history » Co be found in these writu^ of his 
which have came down tO' us thzou^ the 
StEashuTg: convent. Of the crisis, of his refigi- 
ous life he gasre an aeamat to Tauler in one- of 
his conveisations with him i other parts c£ his 
history are to be- fcuad in the various frag- 
Dunts of leUgiouB aatobiogrAphy whidi he 
wrote at diffierentt tixamB,. and in faia awn 
letters am] those of his feiendBi. 

' Victdas of Bede, Ae soa at a warnfaant of 
tbat town,, was bonx alftoat line jtear 1308. 
The metdiant had a gssat &am^ a knight 
who had a son of the same agr as Nicohis, 
and the two bojrs weremuc&^laahsd to each 
other. When the boys hadi mathei die age 
of fiiieen, die merchant tbsk his son wth 
him to travel in foreign comUDtts, to make 
acquaintaoce for himSBlf wilft his Other's 
mercantile- connection^ and to laaai. the 
laognages. At the same time the iaa^t 
toc^ hu son. to courts and toumejrs. 

Beds lads returned home, and, in. qote- of 
their diSnmt expeneiuse^ were agfan as 
fina fiienA as ever. Some yems aftes tins, 
the merchant ctied. Nicolar socoeedBd to 
his father's business ; and while he was absent 
on a three months' journey connected with 
his affairs, his motlier died also. 

On her death, NicolaS) at the age of 
twenty-four, found himself his own master, 
and possessed of con.sider.able wealth. His 
friend now painted to him in gfowt:^ colours 
the charms of a knightly life^ and entreated 
him to give up business altogether, and come 
with him in qmst of adventures. Nicolas 
consented. What became of the business 
we are not told ; but some arrangement must 
have been made for carrying iYOii,_3S_vic 

ni(jiti7F;d hy V J 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IK THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



alwajs find him in command of plenty of 
money. The two friends set forth on their 
travels, like two young knights of romance ; 
they distbguished themselves .by feats of 
arms at tournaments, they went as welcome 
j visitors from one castle to another, where 
I they were in high favour with noble ladies, 
I and *'led them to brooks and pleasiu-e-gar- 
' denp" and sang lays to them, aiid told t£em 
I stories of travel. Ere long, the two friends 
. fell in love with two beautiful and noble 
', maidens. The yoimg knight's woomg was 
I short and easy, and he was soon happily 
i married to the fair girl who had won his love, 
j But Nicolas, who had forgotten amid the 
I pleasures of the brilliant lifu he had been 
i leading, that he was after all but a j^ebeian 
i burgher, was made to feel bitterly his real 
I position. In those days an immeasurable 
' distance was placed between the burgher 
! class and the knights and nobles, and the 
i kinsmen of his Margaretha rejected with 
scorn the proposals of Nicolas for her hand. 
The ;youDg knight did all in his power to urge 
his finend's suit, but his persuasions and the 
entreaties of Nicolas were alike in vain, and 
the young merchant had to return home, the 
bright day-dream of leading " a knightly life " 
over. At £rst he hoped that by perseverance 
he might change the rcaolution of Mar- 
garetha's friends ; but when £our years had 
passed, and he seemed nonearerwiiwing her 
than ever, he despaired of success, and re- 
solved to go with his family (he seems to have 
had several sisters) " across the aoa," pro- 
bably to settle in fiamris, on tibe other side 
of the Lake of Constance. But Maiguetha, 
hope&d or msxe constant thdm her 
lover, would not allow him to go. And after 
two years more, her mivther and kiaamen at 
last consented to the marriage, on contjitiem 
that Nicolas should settle a laxge sum of 
money on his bride. To this conditicai he 
gladly agreed, and the da^ of betrothal was 
fixed, aod gjceat preparattooe made for the 
usual festivUie& But cow that he was just 
on the point of obtaining his gxeatsst eaithly 
wish, a 6tra<ige change came over the mind 
of Nicolas, la the time of his "l^ightl^' 
liftq," he had not kept himself free from the 
sins of his age, yet he had ahrays retaioed 
the outwaid forms of leligiwi aad on the 
night befoie his betrothal be knelt to pra;y, 
in his own room, before a crucifix lighted by 
a single taper. In that a^ of the Church 
the blessings of wedded love and family life 
were not kwked oa so much as good gifts 
from God, but catlier as hindrances to the 
highest Christian life ; those who Uved in 

■ — 



family life might be real Christians, but tiiey 
had not chosen the b^t, their thoughts and 
desires were not entirely weaned from earth 
and given to God. Probably the reaction 
from and fear of too great joy which besets 
sensitive impulsive minds, brought those 
teachings, which Nicolas must often have 
heard, into his monory, and prompted his 
prayer, that a sign might be given him 
whether it was the will of God that he sboald 
enter into the maxried state or nrot As he 
remained kneeling, the omcifix seemed to 
bend towards him, and the figure of the 
Savbur to utter the words, ** Stand up, re- 
nounce the woiid, take up thy cross, and fol- 
low me." His resolution was at once taken, 
and next morning he told his friends the 
betrothal would not take place ; that he bad 
chosen another bride, and had consecrated 
has li& to the Queen of Heaven. He seems 
to hajre sent no word of explanation to the 
woman who had remained constant to him 
so long, and was Teady to give np rank, home, 
and kindred for his sake, and Mai;garedia, in 
deep distress, soi^ht the counsel aod help of 
her confessor. He, probably thinking that 
there wafi only some temporary cause of 
estrangement, contrived an interview between 
the lovers, by introducing Margaretha secretly 
into a bouse where he knew Nicolas was to 
be. WhMi he dius unexpectedlf met her, be 
" was afraid." Perhaps for the first time it 
came across hiammd, which bad been carried 
away nth llie tftnu^t of sclf-renniKiation, 
that he was sacxificmg aaotiier life besides 
his owa ^ Ah, my love," said Mai^aretha 
with teaa, " what have I done to ytm, that 
you should leave me so?" Nic<rtaS' told hcr 
of his vinon, and of the 'vow be had takea. 
When she had hoard all, she acquiesced at 
ODce in his decisieot; aod saying that she 
would never marry any one, she gave hhn' all 
her jewels, asking him to use thera for God's 
service. !Miai:garetha lived for majjy years a 
life (H* great piety and good works. We can- 
not help woDdeiiiig iriaether she was the 
Margaretha Ebaer, a ''noble cloistered lady 
ic Bavaria," to wtoa some of the many tetters 
of pious GonDBiel nittea by Nicolas, after fte : 
had become a Koogused sehgioss teacher, 
wexe addressed ; fant this v't. twre no means . 
of knowing. { 
Nicolas was now despised and forsakoi by 
all his friends, foe they said he must be either 
a fool or a heretic He did not heed their 
scorn ; bat, wishing So devote bims^ entirely 
to a religious life, he let his house, which was 
at " the best end " of the town^ and went in 




124 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



poor people's dwellings. He wished to have 
given up all his wealth, but it was revealed 
to him that he was to keep it and use it for 
Grod's service, and in his after life we see 
many occasions on which this wealth was so 
used by hun, and enabled him to do much 
good. 

After Nicolas had spent two years in this 
way, his old friend, who had been for some 
time in foreign countries, came home, and 
came to visit him. They had a long inter- 
view i but to the good-natured man of the 
world the aspiraticms after a life entirely con- 
secrated to God, seemed mere vbionary ab- 
surdities, and finding himself unable to shake 
his friend's resolution, he left him in disgust, 
declaring that he would have no taote to do 
with him. 

When he found himself forsaken by the 
friend of his boyhood, and the last tie that 
bound him to the world thus broken, Nicolas 
felt his loneliness to be a call from God to 
go deeper than he had yet done into the 
divine life. For in spite (» self-renunciation, 
meditation, and prayer, his soul was far from 
rest Then followed two years of spiritual 
stru^es. First Nicolas began to read the 
Lives of the Saints in German, and inspired 
with the desire of becoming like them, he 
imitated the austerities which they had prac- 
tised, and with such zeal that he soon be- 
came ill, and like to die. Then in a dream 
he heard a voice sa)fing to him, "Foolish 
man, if thou killest thyself before the time, 
thou wilt be sorely punished for it ; but if 
thou didst allow God to exercise thee, He 
could exercise thee better than thou by thy- 
self, or with the devil's counsel." His ^orts 
after nearness to God thus received a new 
direction, and he now he^n tcyvag to under- 
sbmd God's nature and character by the 
exercise of his natural reason ; for he was, as 
he told Tauler, "by nature an ingenious, 
clever, good-hearted man," and he said to 
himself, " Thou hast such good understanding, 
that, perhaps, if thou didst set about it in 
earnest, thou mightest come to understand 
diese things." But no sooner had he said it, 
than he felt that this thought too was a 
temptation from the devil, and he exclaimed, 
" Oh, bad spirit I if we had such a God as 
that, I would not give a beny " (German, 
sOadu—'' a sloe ") "for him." 

Having failed in this attempt " by search- 
ing to find out God," he fell to meditadi^ 
on the passingness of earthly things, the sins 
f£ his youth, and his early companions who 
were still living in their sins ; and he could 
; not think, he says, "how a man in this 



deceitful world cotdd find rest and comfort.'' 
He again betook himself to austerities, the 
only way he knew of getting rid of the sinful- 
ness which he still felt weighing him down to 
earth, and keeping him far from God. When 
for the second time his strength began to fail 
under them, he began to see visions. He 
had been thinking again of the Lives of the 
Saints, and saying to himself that these 
saints were only men, as he was ; why might 
not he live the same life of devotedness and 
communion with tlie unseen as they did? 
and soon he found those heavenly visions, 
which fill so la^e a part in tiiese biographies, 
repeated in his own experience. The saints 
and the Saviour Himself appeared to him. 
Still Nicolas was not satisfied ; his visions 
did not bring the nearness to God — the 
knowledge of Him in His Essence, to which 
his soul aspired. One night, at the hour of 
matins (three o'clock in the morning), he 
was seized with a great longing, and grayed, 
" Eternal and merciful God, oh that it were 
Thy will to give me to discover something 
that should be above all sensual reason." 
Then with a sudden reaction he was afraid 
at his own boldness, and prayed to be for- 
given for diat he, who had been such a 
sinner, should have asked sudi a great gift. 
Then in his penitence he scourged himself 
violently. As he did this, and the blood was 
streaming down, the day broke, and as light 
dawned on the outer world, his weary soul 
was filled with a great light and a great 
calm. Of what he then saw and felt we have 
no detailed description, such as he gives of 
his former visions. He only says that he felt 
' it was good for him to be there," that God 
filled bis mind with clear understanding, and 
more illumination than all teachers could 
give. After this he left off his austerities, 
and ceasing to long after visions, he applied 
himself to the study of the Scriptures ; and 
such was the effect of the invrard light he 
had received, that in thirty weeks he under- 
stood it more thoroughly than if he had 
studied all his days in the highest schools. 

Such is the account which Nicolas him- 
self ^ve of the crisis in his spiritual historj-. 
And in spite of much that is strange to our 
present modes of thought, much that is left 
unexplained, we can see, across the distance 
of more than five hundred years, and can 
sjrmpathize with a real soul-struggle. 

Nicolas of Basle knew nothing of theo- 
logy, Cadiolic (X heretic ; he was no " Re- 
fmmer before the Reformation the name 
and the thou^t of just^cadon by &ith 

in Christ were alike unknown to hi 

Digitized by 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



"5 



beliefe were vague, confused, mixed with 
j many absurdities, his devotion to Christ's 
j service mingled with much of self-will 
I and self-exaltation ; still, we cannot doubt, 
' as he tells us after all these years his own 
stoiy, that he did, amid all this strange ap- 
paratus of visions and scourgings, turn from 
himself to Christ ; that having set himself to 
seek God, he did surely find Him ; that his 
Lord and ours did lead him, by ways very 
strange to us, to the rest of faith, to the 
" peace that passeth all understanding." 

When Nicolas had thus found rest for his 
own soul, and was freed from the spiritual 
struggles which had hitherto absorbed all his 
enogies, be resolved to devote his life to 
active sovice for Christ in seeking to turn 
others from sin to God. He did not enter 
into any religious order ; his were capadties 
that the outward rule, so necessary for some 
characters, would only have cramped and 
rendered useless, and he probably felt this 
instinctively ; and to the end of his life, 
though accepted as a teacher by many priests 
and monks, remained, what he loved to call 
himself, a layman. As such he did not think 
that it would be right for him to preach, but 
believed that he ^onld confine himself to 
influence individuals ; and this was evidently 
die work for which he was best fitted. The 
fint person, as far as we know, whom he thus 
influenced for good, was his early friend, the 
yona% knight, of whom Nicolas heard about 
this time that he had been unfaithful to his 
wife — ^the wife won in the old bright days of 
their friendship. Nicolas met him, and 
warned him of his sin ; his friend was at first 
veiy angry, but aflerwards consented to 
come and talk with him in the garden of his 
little house, and when he had done so, he 
went away softened and penitent. When he 
and his wife were living happily together 
again, they asked Nicolas to visit them, and 
advise them in the education of their chil- 
dren. 

Nicolas was remarkable for the skill and 
tact with which he dealt with all the various 

characters with whom he came into con- 
tact He seemed to know instinctively the 
right way to approach every man he met ; 
and then, when he found them willing to 
give themselves to God's service, and to 
take him for their spiritual guide in so 
doing (for with Nicolas these two things 
always went t<^edier), his tact was no less 
remarkable in the suiting a( his counsel to 
the different characters and capacities. Those 
whom he did not think able for " the perfect 
life," he helped by his advice to live piously 



and usefully in their worldly callings ; those 
whom he thought capable of higher things, 
he carefully instructed and trained, putting 
them sometimes, as he did Tauler, through 
long and painful courses of discipline. He 
founded no sect outside of the Church, no 
religious order within it ; but gradually, as 
the years went on, there gathered around 
him a circle of those whom he had taught 
and influenced, who called themselves Gotta 
freunde, " the Friends of God." The circle 
comprised men and women of all ranks and 
conditions. There were priests, monks, and 
nuns ; there were also knights and rich mer- 
chants and their wives, one of whom we hear 
specially was Rulman Merswin, a merchant 
of Strasbuzg, who, with his mfe, attadied 
himself to Nicolas in 1347, who some years 
later founded, by his advice, a Convent (rf the 
Johanniter in that city, which community he 
afterwards joined, and through whom almost 
all that we know of Nicolas has come down 
to us. All these persons scattered through 
many countries of Europe, and living in 
every variety of different outward circum- 
stances, were joined together by the bond of 
a common inner religious life, and a common 
devotion and obedience to their teacher, 
whom they called, for distinctioD, " the great 
Friend of God." 

What the teaching of Nicolas was we see 
most clearly in his own " Histoiy of Tauler's 
Conversion," which will be given in another 
paper, where we have both his method of 
discipline and his doctrine given in detail by 
himself. The two points on which he, in 
common with all mystics, chiefiy insisted, 
were imion with God, having as its necessary 
condition self-renunciation, and the indwell- 
ing of the Holy Spirit in the souls of those 
who had attained to that union. 

Though Nicolas preached ^If-rennncia- 
tion as the necessary condition for attaining 
to the " pofect life,^ he did not mean by it 
what tiie more accredited teachers of the 
mediaeval Church called "counsels of per- 
fection." Some of the "Friends of God," as 
we have seen, were married, wealthy, and 
lived in the exercise of their ordinary callings. 
The self-renunciation on which he insisted 
was not so much the giving up of this or that 
external thing, as the submission of the will 
to God. It is true that by his counsel many 
of his followers passed through a long period 
of privation and severe austerities ; but this, 
according to him, was only a preliminary 
stage, necessary in some cases in order that 
the flesh might be subdued to the spirit, the 
human will broken and taug^td^ 



me spmt, tne i 



SURDAY MAGAZINE. 



to the Di'infie. Whin once tha snbmission 
had beeA attained (and Nicolas usuanj" 
took upott hhn&elf to fix for his disciples 
v/hai they haid reached this point^, ^ea 
ontttard tfiitigs becaioe matters of mdiSer- 
ende. Sonie of the brethren in the Johanniter 
Conterit, founded by Rulman Weiswin, were 
scandalised at some othets who used td go 
about in sbbrt froclcs and rode on hon>eb£^ 
— ^two prtjttedings which in those dajrs were 
MTparently cottsidfertd " Wrldty." But 
Nicolas told diem tiutt such brediren were 
not to be blamed. If the hieart was truly 
given tb God, it did not matter about dress, 
or fobdf or sadi outward things ; riches and 
poverty even were alike indiflferent, ajid wers 
each to be ■submhted to when thay belonged 
to a man's appoinOed condition. In all this 
we ^ee what has been called in our own day 
" Christian common sense," that marrellous 
unconscious tact which so distinguished the 
"Gr«it Layman." But Nicolas went farther, 
for he laugjit that to a man whose will was 
truly one with God's, suffering and sorrow 
should not 0ti)y be received as ootning from 
His hand, but the sufferer oaght not to pray 
to be delivei'ed from Uiem. Even temptations 
were looked upon as trials sent frcnn God, 
which were to be borne as His will for the 
soul's good ; and hence came the strange 
idea that the sentence in the Lord's Prayer, 
" Lead us not into temptation," ought not to 
be used by those who had attainel to the 
"perfect life." When the heart was en- 
tirely given to God, and die will had be- 
come one with his, then it was illuminated 
by the gift of the Holy Spirit. This 
inward illumination is not the gift of the 
Spirit bestowed cvi ^1 Chri^ans, in whidi 
the apwtles beliftved, and in which we be- 
lieve now, helpiog them to anderstetnd God's 
Word, a&d influencing and' guidmg aright 
their thoughts and actions. It is somethmg 
quite special, only given to those who are 
leading the ** perfect life," and which, besides 
making clear to them the sense of Scripture, 
revealed actual events, past, present, and 
future^ and gave positive directions as to 
what was to be done undei all circumstances. 
In some respects it is not unlike the assur- 
ance of the earlier Wcsleyans. Probably 
Nicolas believed that he himself -possessed 
this gift in fuller measure than any of his 
followeiv, for it is difficult to see on what 
other grounds he could have demanded from 
them, as he did, such implicit obedience. He 
was to be to them "in the place of God,** is 
the phrase that is more than once used. But 
all the "perfect" possessed it in some 



measure, and thus among the "Triends erf 
God ** there was no distinction made between 
priests and laymen. The priest^ indeed, still 
administered the sacraments. Nicolas did 
not attempt to subvert the existing dinrch 
order, and, unlike many mystics, had a deep 
veneration for the sacraments, and especially 
for the Sacrament of the Supper, arrd lwlieved 
firmly in the doctrine of ttansubstantiation, 
only all Church ordinances and Chnrch life 
were to bim among the outward tilings, which 
to a man livingtheperfectlife sAioold be matters 
ofindifierence. Asfiu*assuchoiitirarddnDgs 
were concerned, the difference between priest 
and layman remained, and was to m re- 
spected, like all other distinctions ordained 
by God ; but as regarded what was infinitely 
higher and more important, the inner reli- 
gious life of the individual, all who were truly 
united to God needed no priestly mediator 
to bring them nearer to Him, no priestly 
instructor to tell them of Him, for all were 
alike dwelt in and inspired by die same 
Spirit, whose-word must be heard and obeyed, 
idiether it comes through priest or layman. 

The " Friends of God" gave their lives to 
die practice of good works. They had in- 
deed become, Nicolas taught, merely God's 
instruments, doing His will, not liteir own, in 
all things ; but then it was evident that God 
would only use His instruments in doing good 
works, for such alone were pleasing to Him. 
When, therefore, an impulse to evil came, it 
was to be recognised at once as a temptation, 
and though temptations were to be accepted 
and borne with.patience, as coming byGod's 
permission, they were not for a moment to 
be yielded to. Nicolas accepted the ^stcm 
of morality taught in the ChurtA of his day 
as he did the exbting ecclesiastical system ; 
they were things of God's appwitment. 
And it vrSs the sazne with the theological 
teaching of the Church; he once, we arc 
told, heard a sermon on predestination, and 
was much perplexed by it; so he sought out 
two learned priests, and begged them to 
explain the subject to him; and when they 
had done so, his perplexities were removcti. 
The inner illuminatjon which he prized so 
highly did not reveal to him new doctrines, 
it shed its light rather on the Christian Kfe. 
As a layman, theology was not his business ; 
what he sought to do was to put a new 
life into the obedience with which men 
practised the old precepts; and -when he 
found a man like Tauler, a learned tfieo- 
logian, an eloquent preacher, tre prized the 
gifts which he himself had not, and ^^^^ 
to lead their possessor to dHsr^M m^-mif 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 127 



life and «inngy; and thus beocFoae fit to do a 
work of'whiChlie'hmiself was'incapable. 

In ttue coatsc vf time several af the fol- 
Itmea tff 'Nicolas, «fao bad no otber ties or 
diAies, Attached . fiiemselves speBia!Qf to hitn, 
and -caSBe to live "With him in the qtriet hoase 
iiihliagaiden,ii%idk'hehadchosen forbis ovn 
retreat. It was between the years 1350 and 
i3i5d ftat 'fliis little ttotherhood was -formed. 
In all it iHUnbeted only thirteen, but in this 
oicte there'was as ft were an inner cirde of 
four special Biends and followers, who always 
remained mth NichDlas. Of these four 
Mends and hhnself he has ttdd the history 
in Isk " Buch von den fiinf Manoen." 

The feott^ of these was a Jew, named 
J^bi^bank, v/bo vss converted to Chris- 
tianity 'by u nemarkdste vision. When 
he -was baptized he - took the name of 
JfAm. Nicolas was told in a vision to 
go and se6k this man, of whom he had 
previoasly known nodiing, and who was 
afterwards one of his most attached followers. 
He, too, was a priest. The brotherhood did 
not even fcillow the ordinary formal nries of 
the ChuTcb*-they fasted or not, just as 
** the Hoty Spirit moved them." The priests 
among them mdeed said mass, and sang the 
services for the hours, but they sang them at 
any time that was convenient They walked 
in the woods to meditate, or they told each * 
ddier dxnit their visions and tenqitations, or 
they talked about the af&irs of the world. 
They had more opportunities of knowing 
about those than the raembere of an ordinary 
religious order — indeed their main business 
ft-as with 2ie affairs of the world. This peace- 
Ail life ctf walking in woods, meditating, and 
seeing visions, was their home life ; bat they 
were o'ften sent Nicolas into distant 
countries, either to remain there and send 
' him word of what went on, or to convey 
■ messages to or from others of the Friends of 
I God who were there. Nicolas had an im- 
'■ mense correspondence^ canied on witb won- 
! derfuUy successful secrecy, by which he knew 
I the state rel^ion in many different countries, 
and nben some event of importance to the 
i Church St large, such as the election of a 
I bishop or an abbot in some important place, 
I was impending he and the brediren united 
j their prayers that the right man might be 
I chosen, while at the same time Nicolas did all 
I in his power to bring about the desired result 
by letters to influential friends, and some- 
times even went in person long and dangerous 
joumejrs. 

In the spring of the year after the Great 
Schism, an event which secrtied to rend the 



Church in two and filled all Christian 
hearts with deep sorrow, Nicolas and 
seven of his bre&ren held a -sort of 
^retreat," in a irild mountainoBB |flace, 
beside &ir stream," and y/bae there 
was a chapel hewn m therock, where every ■ 
day diey ctadjrated Divine service. The ■ 
weather was wild and portentous during the 
eight days they spent in this place. TTiey 
saw apparitions and heard voices, but seera 
to have come'to no decision as to theiriiitiire 
course. On the night of the ■following Christ- 
mas it was revealed to Nitx)las in a dream 
that he should liotd anotber meeting of the 
Frkn^ of Godj m the Holy' Thursday of 
Hie next year. They dierefore met, ut Ihe 
time fixed, the Wfaote thitteOL Some 'had ' 
come fiom distant countries — one from Vtiivm, \ 
one from Genoa, two from Hungary. All 
met together for the last time, and partook 
together of the Communion. On Good Fri-' 
day they were all sitting by the stream, when, 
after a series of strange apparitions, the voice 
of an invisible speaker addressed them, anci 
a letter fell into their midst. The ktter, which 
could be read, we are told, in every language, 
commanded them to disperse for three years, 
after whidi, if God was about to send deliver- 
ance to His Church, they would again be 
called togcflier. After Easter the invisible 
voice a^in addressed them, and asked if 
they would obey lift commands contained in 
the letter. They replied that they would. 
Kicolas reEeved them all from ttieir obedi- 
ence to him, and also ^Tote to Rulman 
Mers\\in to the same effect, and then the little 
brotherhood broke up, and the members 
departed, all in different directions. Nico- 
las himself went, with John, and another 
brother called James, into Austria. And 
so, amidst strange visions and voices, the 
Friends of Qod vanish from our sight into 
the mists of the past. Hie Strasbmg knights 
of St. John had all their letters carefully 
copied (the copyist clianging them as he 
wrote from Swiss German into his own Stras- 
burg dialect), left out all the names oi persons 
and places, and llien burned the origmals, 
lest they should bring any to harm. 

When the period of three years had passed 
we hear Of no further meeting, the state Of 
Germany was worse than before, and Nicolas 
doubtless felt that it was not yefdie time when 
God would send deliverance to His Church, 

About ten years later, one Martin of Mainz, 
a follower of Nicolas, was burnt as a heretic ; 
and Nicolas must still have been living at 
the time, for he is several times alluded to in 
the act of accusation against Wartrn. BptiC 



ic8 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



as he must then have reached the age of 
eighty-five, and was suffering from the in- 
firmities of old age at seventy, it cannot have 
been long after that he suffered as a heretic, 
though there is no date to the notice that 
tells us of his execution. He was burnt at 
Vienna, with two of his disciples, perhaps the 
two who had gone forth with him from their 
Swiss convent-home. As his dead friend Tau- 
ler had long ago foretold to him in a vision, 
he had a " hard death." But doubtless it was 
none the less what he foretold for himself— 
" a happy and blessed end." The unfriendly 
hand that refX)rds his martyrdom mentions 
as his chief crime that he "audaciously 
affirmed that he was in Christ, and Christ in 
him." This is our last glimpse of the Great 
Layman. We see him, after his long life of 
ninety years, with its romance, its soul 
straggles, its devotion to Christ's service — 
mingled as it was with superstition and smbi- 
tion — dying at last for the truth that he prized 
the most, and finding in death the reality 
of it as he had never done before. 

It is impossible not to see a great resem- 
blance between these old mediaeval " Friends 
of God " and a company of Christian men 
and women who have been within the last 
few months holding meetings at Oxford and 
elsewhere. The resemblance appears mwe, 
however, in the preparatory exercises than in 
their public work. At the '.'Consecration Meet- 
ings," at Broadlands and Oxford, we find men 
of different ranks and professions-clergymen 
both of the Church of England and Dissenting 
bodies (corresponding to the mediaeval 
clergy), lay-preachers (answering to the 
preaching mars), and laymen. There were 
men present from America, Great Britain, 
France, and Germany; but all seem to have 
be«i of the same stamp — men of deep, earnest 
piety, mostly engaged in practical good 
works, and Imowing very littlfe of Uieology. 
They met tmder the presidency of a lay- 
man, whom they believe to have learned, 
and to be able to teach them, the secret 
of living a more holy, devoted, entirely 
consecrated life, than ordinary Christians are 
able in these days to lead. There is a 
striking agreement in the principles, and 
even in the methods. At the Broadlands 
meeting, we find, " We began with the nega- 
tive side .... For some days the company 
was held under the searching light of God, 
to see and to remove any obstacles to a 
divine union — ought that fiiistrated the grace 
of God." " How many had to adcnowledge 
to God that • • • while cleariy teacbi^ 
and standing in a risen Christ, they had been 



living more or less after the corrupt flesh . . . . 
We were led on to see that the Scripture 
command, ' Be filled with the Spirit,' was an 
immediate privilege, and that Pentecost was 
but a sample of what was the gift to the 
Church in all generations of this ' dispensa- 
tion of the Spirit* in which we are Uving. 
As we waited and prayed * with one accord,* 
there came upon the company such a sense 
of the presence and power of God as filled 
all hearts full .... After this, in all the 
meetings, we were able to fix our minds on 
Christ hunself, and to dwell on the closer 
union to whidk m his love He was calling 
us." Further on the writer says, in language 
which might almost have been taken word 
for word from Tauler's first sermon preached 
after his conversion : " Having saved us, 
Christ comes as the heavenly Bridegroom to 
win our hearts. At first we cannot believe 
this ; surely He can hardly mean this. But 
He has set lus heart upon the bride. At length 
she suddenly sees that it must be so, and 
she yields her heart, her whole heart ; the 
barriers are broken, and she comes ' to dwell 
in love and in God.' " And again, *' When 
in the final meeting the thought of 'filling 
up that which is behind of the sufferings of 
Christ for his body's sake, which is the 
Church,' was brouj^t before tis, many were 
able to ask even for this, if so be they might 
thus express their gratitude and love." Of 
course five hundred years have brought their 
changes. The teadier of the nineteenth 
century has not to conceal his name and 
place of abode for fear of being burnt as a 
heretic, he does not form his followers into 
an order, he does not think of demanding 
fix>m them, nor would they think of render- 
ing to him, implicit submission. If these are 
unprovements, on the other hand the modem 
teadier ([Mr. R. Pearsall Smith) seems to 
detach himself, even more than did Nicolas 
of Basle, from ordinary church life ; for in- 
stance, he never, as far as I am aware, men- 
tions the sacraments as being means of grace, 
while Nicolas lays great stress upon them. 
But there is one difference between this 
American teacher and the " Great Layman," 
which is a vital one, and shows a real ad- 
vance. It is evident that Mr. Smith teaches 
all over whom he exerts any influence to 
look far more to Christ, and far less to him- 
self and his methods, than did the " Great 
Layman" of the fourteenth century. The 
Church learned at the Reformation, that it was 
possible to go straight to Christ without the 
mtervention of |»iest or teacher, and she can 
never foiget the lesson. t. m. lind; 

Digitized by 



AUTUMN WARNINGS. 



125 



AUTUMN WARNINGS. 



COFT voices of the woods, that nuke 

^ The Enmmer air a harmony, 

Winged whispers through the leaves where wake 

Long wind-wafts dying in a sigh. 
Replies of birds from hrSkt to brake, 

Flash of the runnel on its stones. 
Soft vcrices, sweet for summer's sake, 

There is a word in all your tones, 
A word that not till now ye spake, 
*' Goodbye, goodbye. ' 



And yet, see dearest, overhead 

The branches bar a sultry sky, 
No earliest fleck of tanned or red 

'Mid all the leafage far and nigh, 
And, with their semed curves outspread. 

The fresh green fem-fronds know no frost. 
Nought gone ; but still some grace is dead : 

Nought changed ; but still some hope is lost ; 
Listen and every voice has said 
" Goodbye, goodbye." 




We shall not see the nunmer wane, 

' Bat, with a start of memory. 
When the lone chills have come again, 

Awake and Know that it did die: 
So slowest loss is sudden pain ; 

We have not known till all is o'er ; 
'Tis xnmmer till the autumn's rain. 

Yet has there stolen long before 
That sadness thnmgh some sweetest strain, 
« Goodbye, goodbye." 



Ah love, hear all the thought that grew ; 

Mock it away, I'll mock it, I : 
Summer and I sit here with you. 

Your great eyes smiling tenderly, 
Yonr silence wooing me to woo, 

A meaning in your lightest word 
As though love made it something new — 

And what if all the while I heam 
The autumn whisper sighing through 

" Goodbye, goodbye ? " _ , ( . 

AUGUSTA WEBSTER. (; 



130 SUTOAY MAGAZiWE. 



SOME CONTRASXa 

9v TKX **JC3!aB3SEYitAX WxLttESSL" 
I4 — 7BB SHORT DAY. 



IT is 2<ommcn pncdot noiradsiTS to insti- 
tute'omapnaDiiB bMmeen the life of the 
working classes and d&t of Ibe duses above 
them ; to moralise upcm- the fact that it is the 
. toilns who fipe scmOAf aaA hvd, &e idlers, 
the hatterffie^ .and dans oC aodttf wba 
live in ew mad sphndow , fad ■nM^nfax 
thcfBOd rtaigiof Me. The oontsnipfate 
of agae oBBtaate is ait I rti irtHjil to hate a 

j uidaed tuch €caanMb sr gisSaaJkf dam 
I ffith^^Limnud arteatioarf CHHti^fedii^ 
the wweae of 1001 1 im% Ttien is, of onvse, 
! pleac^ of nom ibr sodi uuwtaaJiB, and tho^ 
majr be tjaa-whea k 909' he wcH that they 
should :be doiwn — tines ^i^ien the irritatioa 
thejr pmdnte wa^ be as advaiitagaous to the 
mocai grstem m wedicwial kritazits some- 
times uet» dK pifvari ; provii^ a necessary 
stiiHlBxt to III II II iiij acdom. Such occa- 
sions, however, arc nae ; and as a rule the 
wisdom of eitfaer damm^ «r dwelling upon 
sach amtaastsvaxy wdl lie^uestioBed. They 
are ftr tfaemost part oomtrasts, to tiie brighter 
exlmaes cf which dnmce lands a mislead- 
i ing LiMliwrtLiiLiit. To Aose whose iives are 
supiHWBd to be Ihe iai to it, tiiis lirightrr 
I extiCBK k pnctical^ ^ Boattainoblc, a 
J thii^ dnt it is aene wmity and vexatkn of 
spvk ta CD Hl e wi p ia te with fedings of envy 
or of stmag deaoe. 

These are, we Tcntnie to thkik, asaltiaSts 
that inqr be aoadi man profitably drawn and 
stodxed tfan tbose between the woiling 
! classes vad the classes vdiidi are above them 
' in necewealtfa aadsocial position ; contiairts 
I betwee a fee #adaag classKami the working 
clanMS f oontBSts arising not OHt of aoddcais 
of weahh and posancai, bnt oat of Aicyaad^ 
that 

""XbteaoadmAit-weMni^ara^- 

ancf oolf lanpng beUnea tihc sBaUaiDed and 
the attainaUe. It is not (mr present purpose 

to expressly line out sharp contrasts, and ask 
our readers to look on this picture and on 
that, but in sketdiir^ features and phases of 
■ working-class life such contrasts as those we 
have last spoken of must incidentally arise, 
and where they do we beg to say once for 
all that in speaking of the faults which in 
some cases may go to make up the darker 
side of the contrast, we do so ia no unkindly 
or unbrotherly spirit. 



One of the diings in whioh ts Ijroin^ out 
contrasting varieties of life wittun th&wodang 
classes, is what najr itignififfd as the 
institution of " the short day," windi we pro- 
pose to talk of fiat. 

Even hefcge ite eai^darinBent of ^at sdne- 
btuBS systeta, wltoa naiaam woEked -an till 
ibara'dDck aa Sttmdaf instead of aa now 
"'inockiflg off" at one oUock— ckb in 
what an now iipiiiliiil as sii tines, 
Sttaniaay w Ibn^ styleA Ae Aest aay. 
Hie Aoa day as to wodc, ffaxt is, bat due 
lat% daj as tegards leisose aad ^qniHa^ 
fen; enqdoying tznae as each aoBii aj|jht aae 
fit. T2ie ciiKatAersttcs of the vtaasas tjipes 
of srtisaaE as ihef besr vpaa and iw^lbeBr 
Imme and socad &fe aic Xteicdfore to beaoon 
cq)eiating with special Hfcctivcness for ^aad 
or evil on that day. b is a speosl d^, too, 
in bang pay-day — adf^Mndi mafaesatc^f 
marketing and shc ^^ ilay for tSie wivgs, 
and wliidi in a yaaeitf of ways ^»cs -cBiknir 
and character to it. Wtfti a view to iidliat- 
ing ear^ laaiVeting ca Ihe StftBtdacy, sooie 
employen pay tiwk w wkmin An Fiiday 
n%hts, but as a mle SOaday is nSH the ]aay- 
day arnoi^ axtisBiia, ad wxdi the jecB^ of 
the weddy wages ca—wcnrr ife vadans 
social aspects of die day. seme azon&d 
the pay-board of a htcge cstablishiargit as the 
hands range up to recove theirwi^ies, is one 
well worths passinig glance. With the daik 

tiie moa^ already in their ens, "te balf- 
holids^ and the rest of the coosng Sonday 
b^xre then, they are cheery of inood and 
look, and jost a little inclined 10 £Dsd- 
hmnomvd chafil A man with a '^'dradong 
bad haformacb-dilapidated coBtisxsAied 
with an affectation (tf hasmess serunsaess to 
nane the pace he wiS take for the artkic^ or 
K ti^ wi& an mr of fiieadty advice tiMCiMiw 
is the tone is saOe it, lost he dould tae by 
it. A roan who bears the lepatstnm of aot 
being as fond of woit as he might be, is 
asked if his hand does not tremble ; while 
others are requested to think of their heads 
in the morning, or told that they have not 
long to be sober now. 

The latter remark is luq>pily in the great 
majority of instances a mere joke, very often 
indeed a stock piece of banter applied to 
total abstainers, but in individual cases here 
and there it is, alas 1 "i9i^iCiE^m$v*\.JBQ>lhe 



flOlffE CONTRA^S. 



dnnlaii^ mirking man, pay-di^, "vltii its 
xncmey in liand, and ample leisure to "be mis- 
U5e4» IB the day of greatest temptation, and 
btft too often a fanr weel^ wage is largely 
** nveltcd * in the pdblic-hoase b^re its rem- 
tfants are taken home to the Wife and children, 
<m \rhom, in the more liteial sense, are Tisited 
die sins of Ae father. But while "tiie general' 
-aspect cff^ose aromid "the pay--bDard is cheeiy, 
' fou can see that the dieerfninessonDokTaries 
m degree, and that there-are notwantii^ anitt- 
tenances -on which more or less deep shades 
•of anxiety may be traced. Jolnisim, who 
bss been working overtmie, .and 'who peifa!^ 
gnmflOed a lirfle when he was woilcing it, is 
wnr TSdhtnt, for liis Teward is at hand in the 
^pe of omliai e pty. He is pBobsft>ly eron 
now bethmki^g him of the little extras that he 
irtU pnrdiase with it, or that he will propose 
to his wife to parchase, when a litde farer 
tliey shad form themselves into a committee 
cff ways or means on the subject. Smith, 
who has made full time, is serenely calm, 
^rfiile Robinson, who is given to sacrificii^ 
; to Saint Monday, and has a weakness for 
i losing morning quarters, hath a sadnes on 
his brow, for his sins of time-losing are now 
: about to find him out m &ie slu^e of a 
! broken pay, and perhaps he too is thinking 
j ofwhatiKupartnerraaysaywhen they go into 
committee on the subject of ways and means, 
j Hien there is the h^:^ who has asked for a 
' rise of wages, and is anxious to learn whether 
I it has been granted ; the new hand, Tvhose 
I first " pay " in the establishment it is, and who 
; is no less anxious to learn how he has been 
I rated, while graver of countenance than all 
I is the hand whoK last pay it is— who, owing 
; to the work getting slack in his department, 
j has been disdiaiged, and has not yet heard 
. of other employment. 

In connection with the weekty pay of an 
I establishment employing any largenumber of 
1 artisans there is generaUy to be seen a prac- 
tical illustration of the principle that idiere 
the carcase is there will the eagles be inhered 
j togeOier. The men sometimes jestingl>; say 
! that ak\ they have to do with the money is to 
i carry it home ; but, as a matter of fact, the 
I demands upon it very often begin before 
j diey can get it home. Hovering without the 
workshop gate are generally to be found a 
mimber of individuals wearing a countenance 
of demand. If a man has during the week 
I lent money to a less thrifty or less fortunate 
mate, be looks for repayment on Saturday, and 
awaits his debtor at the gate. If the establish- 
ment is lai^e enough to have a sick club of 
its own, the secretary and treasurer of the 



dub will be stationed in the gateway to 
receive die subscriptions of meiid»is, and 
more Ksly than not there viQ be iarmd 
antffher couple of men, list in hand, -waiting 
to gather m the promised contritions to a 
cdltection for tbe benefit of some fdllow- 
workman ^o is sick ami in (^stress. These 
latter payments, it is pleasing to note, are 
aheays made with the utmost promptitude 
and good-will, and are generaHy accorapanied 
with some kindly word or message of sym- 
pathy to the recipient, Afellow-feeHngn^ces 
wocking^ men wondrous kind in these mat- 
ters. None of them know how soon it may 
l» their own ttan to be prostrated by illness 
or acc^ent^ and none know so well as they 
the distress that a k>i% sickinss brings into a 
working-class' household. A working man 
who refiises to give to a shop subscription for 
a mate in distress is very exraptional indeed, 
and those who do contribute ate ever cheer- 
ful givers. 

A Bttle further afield than the legitimate 
collectors of provident and charitable toll 
and lithe, are generally to be found a number 
of persons on debt-recovering purpose bent. 
A jobbing cobbler, sayj a tailor in a small 
way of business ; a strong-minded landlady, 
whose " single-man lodger " has taken Aer in, 
by quitting her lodgmgs without going throu^ 
the ceremony of paying his last week's ac- 
count ; a tallyraan, 'who having f^ed to 
screw a wifis to the paying point, is gomg to 
try a ^ twist " on the husband ; the represen- 
tative of some pettifogging loan society, or a 
money lender on his own account, a budding 
Shylock who towards Wednesday, when the 
thriftless or unfortunate are getting **harcl 
up," advances them loans of five shillings 
till the Saturday, at the rwmoderate interest 
of sixpence on the transaction. Since the 
ahemtions in the !aw with respect to the 
nMiOveiy of drink " scores," the publican, 
once the most frequent figure in sudi a band, 
no longer puts in an appearance. 

These anxious waiters on the threshold 
blockade the gate in skirmishing order. The 
great majority of the hands pass them fear- 
lessly, hardly perhaps noticing their presence, 
for they can look the whole world in the face, 
and owe not any man. But it is not so with 
the few for whom the blockaders are on the 
watch. Their looks bewray them ; yon can 
see them wax wrathful or fearful when they 
catch sight of the enemy. Some make boK! 
— but generally unsuccessful — attempts to run 
the blockade, but as a rule they surrender at 
discretion, with the' result that th^ go homp 
with "a hole" in their w.iges.- 



'3* 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



Then, lining the roadway, comes a flying 
detachment of the camp-followers of the 
army of labour, all anxious to take, and more 
or less successful in taking, tithe of the newly- 
received wages ere they reach their homes. 
There are the shoeblacks, the newspaper 
boys, the oyster maxi, and the purveyors of 
such "relishes" as herrings and haddocks, 
some costermongers with their &uit barrows, 
and others with flower-plants. The itinerant 
clothier with his stock in trade over his arm, 
the brace and belt seller, the blind boot-lace 
seller, the penny ice man (in the season), 
and the street quack with his loudly-lauded 
" medicated beverages," and a host of other 
dealers in odds and ends, none of the mis- 
cellaneous traders doing a better trade than 
those selling children's toys. -For with his 
'wages in his pocket, and the " marvellous 
donkey," the dancing sailor, the chameleon 
top, and other articles of that kind, offered at 
sacrificial prices, " father " is very likely to 
remember the little ones at home, or to he 
. reminded of a promise to bring them some- 
thing on pay-day. 

On the diort day working-class folk com- 
port themselves in more leisurely fashion than 
is their habit on the full working days of the 
week. Some of the men may certainly be 
seen hurrying away in double quick time the 
instant they are outside the workshop gates, 
but these are the individuals who chance to 
have special and time-pressing engagements 
— who are going to join some half-hohday 
excursion, or visit friends at a distance, and 
have but scant time in which to " make their 
toilette " and catch the train or other convey- 
ance by vhicfa they must travel. The general 
body, however, as any observer may perceive, 
fall into a more or less sauntering gait as 
they move homeward, many of them lighting 
their pipes as they go, and stopping in twos 
or threes at points where their respective 
roads diverge, to make arrangements for 
meeting again later in the day. On reaching 
home the same spirit still prevails, they eat 
their dinner in a more leisurely, master-of- 
their-own-time manner than on the days on 
which they have to return to work, and not a 
few of them induce in the unwonted luxury 
of an after-dinner nap. 

And now we are fairly in "the wife's 
dominion," and the shades of contrast are in 
the home life. Home habits and customs 
are of course liable to be affected by the dis- 
position of the husband, but broadly and as 
a rule it is the wife who, in working-class 
circles, gives character to the household ; as 
she is, so will it be. If she is an active, 



managing woman, taking a pride in her home, I 
and making it her chief care, those around 
her will be happy and comfortable ; will feel 
that for them there is in very deed " no 
place like home," and in seeing her family 
thus, the good housewife has her reward. IS, 
on the other hand, the wife, whether from 
want of training or want of capacity, is a ' 
muddler ; co-, worse still, if from indolence, or ' 
love of finery, she is slatternly or extravagant, < 
or both, the home is more or less a stxne of | 
discomfiort and dlsccmtent j and. such attrac- 
tions as the public-house offers, apart from 
the mere drinking which is die one all-suffi- 
cient attraction for the already confirmed 
drunkard, are dangerously enhanced for the 
bread-winner of such a household. On 
Saturdays, the home-influences are brought 
to bear with especial force. The men may 
all go home alike, but they do not all find 
like homes. One man as he approaches 
home, will be met by his children with their ' 
faces newly washed, and generally " tidied [ 
up " afler their in<^ing*s play, so that they ' 
may be " fit to be seen " by father and — ! 
pending the weekly tubbing at bedtime — be 
at least partially in keeping with the house, j 
which, by " fadier's knocking-off time," will 
be thoroughly cleaned up, and looking its 
brightest as though it, as well as the wife — 
who is also cleaned up — had a special smile 
of welcome for the bread-winner, on this j 
great day of the week. He finds his door- ' 
steps spotlessly stoned, so that with an I 
artisan's regret to spoil the look of well- < 
finished work, he is chary of stepping on j 
them, and when he gets inside he feeh so ; 
out of keeping with the fresh and orderly ap- 
pearance of the household surroundings, 
that he is not quite comfortable in his mind 
— ^Dot to speak of his body — until he has 
performed the big wash, and effected the 
change of garments which is part of the pro- 
gramme of the short day in the better-regu- 
lated working-class households. 

In connection with this latter point, it is 
worth while to remark that where tiie circum- 
stances of the case admit of it, a common 
practice with working men is to resort to 
pubUc baths for the performance of their 
Saturday ablutions. After wa^ng their 
hands and £ace at home, they make a bundle 
of their "sea)ndbest," or Saturday-night suit^ 
and taking it with tiiem, don it after bathing,, 
and come out from the baUi, looking quite 
other and better men. This plan is more 
widely adopted in the large provincial towns 
than in the metropolis, though, when we con- 
sider the limited conveniences of working- 

Diqitized t.. 



SOME CONTRASTS. 



133 



class dwellings in London, It must be obvious 
, that such a system would have special ad- 
vantages there. But, alas for the great city ! 
the aty of Royal, and Crystal, and Gin 
Palaces, public baths accessible to the work- 
ing classes, in situation and price, are not 
unknown in it, certainly, but they are as 
oases in the desert, and in most parts con- 
spicuous by tiieir absence, and thorough 
cleanliness among the people being made 
difficult, becomes comparatively rare. The 
need for a proper system of pubUc baths and 
wash-houses must be patent to all who have 
given any attention to the sanitaiy condition 
of the masses of the people ; and yet, strange 
to say, in all the talk there has recently been 
on the subject of improved dwellings for the 
people, no mention was made of such a thing 
as the establishment of public baths in con- 
nection with such dwellings, though an 
I adequate supply of such institutions in the 
j densel3r-popidated parts of our £^eat towns 
and cities would be of inestimable importance 
j in improving the homes and habits of the 
people. The idea is, of course, Utopian, but 
it would be a grand thing for the Country and 
for all in it, if at our street comers we could 
substitute for the publiciioase the pubhc 
bath. 

To come back, however, to the subject 
immediately in hand. The workman who 
has a home of the bright, orderly, well- 
managed type we have been speaking of, has 
every inducement to be, and as a rule is, a 
home-keeping man. AAer he is " cleaned 
up," he may go out for an afternoon stroU, or 
if, as is frequently the case nowadasrs, he is a 
volunteer, or belongs to a band, he may go 
for a drill or practice ; or, again, if he is a 
member of a mechanics' or a Uterary institu- 
tion, he may drop in to have a look at the 
weekly papers ; or, on the other hand, he 
may remain in-doors, leisurely reading the 
particular weekly paper to which he is him- 
self a subscriber, or he may — still in a 
leisurely style — occupy himself in doing some 
httle job about the house that is more in a 
man's than in a woman's way. 

But, in any case, be will be at home to tea. 
Saturday afternoon tea is one of the plear 
santest features of the day. On other 
wortcing days, the mfe and chUdren generally 
have tea before "father" comes home, hs 
partaking of that meal by himself; but on 
Saturday, being home early and "cleaned 
up," he takes the head of the table, and " ail 
hands " sit down together, the parents proud 
and happy to have d^eirofispring thus around 
them, and tlie children valuing the privilege 



almost as much as they do the larer one of 
being allowed to " sit up late " at night ; or 
as much as they enjoy the extra "relishes" 
which it is a custom to add to this particular 

meal 

So much for the Saturday afternoon of a 
man who is biased with and appreciates a 
good and clever helpmate and a comfortable 
home. But what of the contrast man, as we 
may call him — ^the man who, on getting home 
from work, finds the Satturda/s cleaning-up 
not yet commenced, or worse, in the mid-tide 
of that disorder out of which order is to be 
ultimately evoked ; the furniture piled about 
all sixes and sevens, the floor wet in some 
parts, so littered in others that it is not out 
of, but in, the home^k that it is difficult for 
him to find a spot whereon to rest the sole of 
his foot The wife is heated and cross, and 
besmirched with her occupation ; instead of 
feeling at home, he feels in the way, is per- 
haps curtly told that he is in it ; and under 
such tnrcumstances it is scanty matter for 
wonder that the "good dry skittle ground," 
or the comparatively comfortable taproom, 
should come to know of his whereabouts on 
a Saturday afternoon. Wives of this latter 
type are happily a minority, a small minority. 
Still, considering their characteristics, they 
are all too numerous, and constitute an argu- 
ment which pleads trumpet-tongued for the 
establishment of a system of training in 
domestic management as part of the educa- 
tion of working*cIass girls. 

Hiat a workmg man's wife is a muddler is, 
as a rale, much more her misfortune than her 
fault. An instinct of domestic management 
is not given to all, and many there be who, 
under present arrangements, have no oppor- 
tunity of acquiring it as an art, who go straight 
from school to the workroom or shop counter, 
and tcom thence to the responsibilities of 
married life. When we consider this, and 
that domestic service in the households of 
the rich 1,1'?. in it an element of what may be 
called mistraining in relation to the managing 
of a working-class household — when we con- 
sider all the drcamstances of the case, the 
wonder is not that there shoidd. be found ill- 
managing wives among the working classes, 
but that the majority of the wives ^ould be 
tiie good managos they are. 

How the time between tea and supper may 
be spent depends a great deal upon individual 
tastes. Saturday is the great night for the 
lodge-meetings of the trade and benefit 
societies, and a good many men betake them- 
selves to those meetings. Others, again, go 
off to places of amusement; a very numerous ^ 



134 



division, jfust go sauntering about, amusing 
themselves bf watching the huinoum of the 
streets and of the Saturday-ni^t shopping ; 
while some accompany their wives on their 
marketing expeditions, of course playing a 
very secondary part in the actual business, 
looking on in silent amazement at the 
" cheapening " encounters between the wives 
and the tradesmen. And here we would fain 
call attention to a point which is but too 
much overlooked. The stir and bustle of 
Saturday-night trading, the brilliant^ lighted 
shops, the voci^ersuting traders, the crowded 
footpaths^ and the army of itiueiant dealets 
in small wares. Using the roadwaj^s and utter- 
ing cveiy variety of trade cry, no doubt make 
up a tt^erably interesting and amusing pic- 
ture of Kfe; and not only do numbers of 
waking tum out, as we have said, to 
enjoy ibis scene, but tlie working classes by 
their action may be said to create the scene 
and be responable foe it. Now in their en- 
joymei^ of Saturday-oigbt trading there is, 
as a moment's cmsideratian must show, a 
spice of the bo)(S^d-fcogs principle — and 
they ane the boys. Saturd^-night leading 
may be sport to tbem, but it is the revcrae of 
sport to the thousands of shopBoen, shop- 
woHien, porter^ and maad boys who aze 
"bound to the wheel" by it feiU nadnight 
To them lie short day of the aitisao is the 
longest, most toilsome day of the week. If 
th£»e of the working classes who benefit by 
the Saturday half-boliday would but ^qp 
and market as early as they might, they would 
be confexring a valuaUe boon upon lai^e 
numbers of tibe— in that respect at any late 
— less fortunately situated members of their 
own gesteral body ; and what tbey can- do to 
extend die benefits of early dosmg to ot^bers, 
they diookt dio wexe it only in the way of an 
appropriate thanJc-oflBring for tlwir oiwii good 
£aitnse in the aoattcr. 

Intiiebetl>er4^u]atedh«we(!itib« "deaning 
up," as regards the house, is,, as we have zuHi, 
got out of hand by the time the brcuu-winner 
arrives to dinner, but the final cleaning up of 
the children is deferred till their bed-time, 
when a genecal tubbing performance is gone 
through. It has often occurred to us that a 
Saturday-night tubbing scene might be made 
into a very good picture. Take, say, a family 

half-a*doEen children, ranging from ten to 
I three years of age. The tub, half fuU of 
I warm watec, is standing in the middle pf the 
fioor, the kugest kettle is on the fire with a 
reserve of bot water, the dean night^r^ses 
are airing on a horse," the towels for use 
are laid out qd a ehair within xeach, aod 



clothes just pulled off and showing the effect 
of the week's wear and tear are freely scat- 
tered about. Mother, with soap-tray and 
flannels at her side, her sleeves turned up a& 
far as they will go, and a great apron tied 
around her, kneels or stands beside tlie tub 
ready for action. J-ohnjiy, the eldest of the 
children, who is to take first turn, and who 
has been standing in his shirt, now divests 
himself of that last garment, and steps into 
the tub, where mother proceeds to operate 
upon lum in wholesomely vigorous ^yle. 
Thinking it becometh him as an elder, he 
depacteih hinuelf somewhat ^avely, but the 
others aze flitting about in high spirits, and 
amuse themselves by tosmeuting him by 
taJting a sly pinch at bis calves, splafihing him 
with cold water, or the hke; and more 
especially at that stage of the proceedings 
when, if we may be allowed the expression, 
hs head is in hand, whw he cannot open 
his eyes or mouth lest the so^ should get 
into them, when be must perforce ^pn and 
bear the pinching, slapping; sphishmg,. tick- 
ling, gibes, and laughter of his tormentors. 
The latter wisely retire ere the C9mmence- 
ment of the towelling, durit^ the isocess of 
vrtiich the ire of the victim is cabzi^ and he 
steps out glowing and ready to join in the 
lai^^ and to retaliate in kind upon his suc- 
cessors- in the tub. It is not, howevo;, until 
it comes to the tura of Ernest, a sturdy, 
curly4iaired young icUow q£ five years, that 
the gseat sensation scene of the saaprand- 
watezy drama comnaesices. Master Ernest is 
the *' youag Turk." of the family^ and he has 
strong objecriaoB to the ijostitutioa of tubbing, 
as applied to bis own person. He had fled 
while his immediate predecessor in the bath 
was being operated upon,, but the others, 
delightmg in the oj^ortunity of the chase 
and capture, have I^ught him back and 
hold htm fitst. He is stripped fiarce, is 
lifted into the tub, and the mother — in the 
imconsciousness of excitement perhaps — ^pro- 
ceeds to apply the soap and flannel with 
extra energy, while the other children are 
also extra vigorous in their proceedings, and 
extra hearty in their laughter at the " Turk's " 
lusty bellowings and threats, which are 
brought to an abrupt stop by his getting a 
mou^iful of suds, a circumstance which, of 
course,, redoubles the mirth of the others and 
the safe of the " Turk." Once sdeasedfcom 
the abhorred tub, however, the redoubtable 
Emost soon calms doiwn,Md seeing the hope- 
lessness of resentroBnt against the majority, 
he joins in their merriment. 

The tabbing over,, and the niaht^e*-'. 

Digilizeoby 



Digitized by 



GoogI 



DAWN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



1 35 



donned, there is a general move to the bed- 
room, where, in many instances at any rate, 
prayers are said and blessings asked at the 
parent's knee, and then, with mother's good- 
night kiss upon lip and brow, the little ones 
are left to their rest. Mother has still to 
" rid up " the kitchen, and afterwards to lay 
out the Sunday clothes of the children, so 
that no time may be lost in getting them 
ready for school in the rooming ; and then, 
her day's work finished, she at length sits 
down, new5p£4)er or book in hand, and 
awaiting "iathei's" letura to supper, rests 
and reads. As tea is taken earlier on 
Satorday than other days, and men aie not 
under uie necessity of retiring as early as 
upon other nights, the Saturday-night supper 
not unnaturally cones to be somewhat of an 
insdintzon. Many have hot supper, and 
most have acme little extra in Ueu of or 
beyond the bread and cheese which usually 
constitute the supper of other nights. More 
tone is taken over it, and the children being 
asleep, and the house quiet, the heads of the 
household often avail themselves of the 
opportunity to "lay their heads together" 
over &mily ai&irs, and more particularly 
those relating to the eiEchequer depaitment 

By half-past nine the esulier birds amcxig 
the men be^n to reach home, and by eleven 
the gieat bulk of jHnem. are within doors, the 
later comers hcing mostly those who have 



been at f}Iaces of amusement, or those un- 
wise individuals who have been impoverish- 
ing their own exchequer by contributing not 
wisely but too well to those of the publi- 
cans. 

We have touched upon the chief character- 
istic features, and shown the incidental con- 
trasts, of the short day — the long leisure day 
of the working-classes ; and we think diat 
wliat we have said of it may be taken to 
demonstrate that, upon the whole, the Satur- 
day hall-holiday has been a beneficial insti- 
tution to them, in that better sense in which 
in being beneficial to them it is also benefidal 
to society at laige, by making them better, 
more contested members of the social body. 
The bulk of them turn it to useful purposes 
— to purposes of cleanlitjess, and widened 
social intercourse, and to forms of relaxation, 
j some, at least, of which — as the visiting of 
picture-galleries and museums, the practice 
1 of music, as bandsmen or otherwise, and the 
fireqjuenting of reading-rooms and libraries — 
have a tendency to elevate as well as to amuse. 
If, in some instances, the leisure of the day 
I is misused, that is but as happens with most 
. other institutions that are good in them- 
{ selves. We can but hope— and we think 
' there is fair gconnds for hoping — that . as the 
, years go on, and education advances, we 
shall see more and more of its wise use, less 
; and less of its unwue abuse. 



DAWN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



SNOWY aunmits all transfigmttd, 
Smittsn wi£b the morning, glonr, 
While the rush of many torreats, 
Bcwaduic to the deptiis below, 
Seems to pause as life awahen» ; — 
Knots oS peasants,. laoviag slew 
To their laboms, and the cowbelia, 

Waving gently to and fro, 
Sound Uie sweetest of xe&ain^ 
As o'er tluG ^rssiy shyes tfaej go. 

11. 

So for our dark souls, sore-burdened 
With the strife, and toil, and care, 
High Ambition's icy strivings, 
That so oft beget Despair, 
And the doubt and hopeless angimh 

Selfish efforts only breed. 
There is brightness that can sofKn 
' All our hardness and our need : 
From the cross of Christ uplifted 
Springs the light — the Light indeed. 



EMTH U. 

Digitized by 



136 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



I 



FROM MY NOTE-BOOK. 



SYMBOLISM has been defended on two 
grounds— that of Nature and Revelation. 
Nature, it is said, is all syrabolical. It is the 
divine and infinite, clothing itself in finite 
forms. Should we not imitate its methods? 
It might be, if we could rival or approach 
them. Hie symbols of nature are inex- 
haustible ; they never pall, and are never 
fully grasped. Man's are limited ; they be- 
come stale and then formal. Nature's are 
constantljf varying ; they never let man sink 
into weariness or indifference— day and ni^ht, 
summer and' winter, earth with its mynad 
fluttoing leaves, and singing birds — the sea, 
with its face ever old and new, and its "ten 
thousand rippling smiles " — the sky, shifting 
its curtained clouds to every form and colour. 
These give eternal interest and freshness, and 
save us from every hazard of formalism when 
we look on them. How can we venture to 
imitate them in our worship ? 

Then we are sure God's symbols in nature 
must have fitness as well as fulness. It is an 
infinite Mind which is approaching ours 
through them. In the other case, it is a 
human mind which is imposing its shapes 
and limits on ours. It may be said that any 
human teacher limits his hearers by the form 
of his thoi^ht and by his illustrations. And 
no doubt, if these Tecbr in the same manner 
as symbolic modes, Aey will have the same 
efiect But from the very nature of this manner 
of teaching, its tendency is to stimulate by 
variety and advance. The lessons of history 
come in to show the constant effect of sym- 
bolism to deaden and formalise thought. 
The effect of teaching by the direct contact 
of thought with thought has always been the 
reverse. 

As regards Revelation, God did indeed 
use symbolism as an instrument instruc- 
tion, and if we could have divinely-appointed 
symbols, there would be a reason for using 
them. But that God employed them and 
then set them aside, is the strongest argument 
against them. They were fitted for a parti- 
cular season and a special stage, and when 
the fiill clear truth came they were removed 
as tending to obscure it Only so much was 
left in two transparent ordinances as to give 
the heart of the Church a vehicle for united 
expression. No one can fail to see that the 
spirit of the New Testament is one of won- 



derful fumplicity, with the fewest possible 
signs ; and if there are immature and unin- 
stnicted Christians, they are directed not to 
symbol, but to *'the sincere milk of the 
Word, that they may grow thereby." 

" But what," it may be asked, " of Raphael, 
Fra Angelico, and Michael Angelo — men 
who were urged "by an inward necessity to 
put religious thought and feeling into form 
and colour ? Are we to leave no room for 
them ?" Room enough for art of eveiy kind 
in its own sphere, while we preserve the 
expression of Christian truth simple and pure, 
as the sunlight colours land and sea, when it 
falls on them, but comes doth in its own 
clear simplici^. 

Many who have wandered through the 
galleries of Italy feel that there might be a 
Christian art, wider, more human, and there- 
fore more scriptural, than is to be seen there. 
The transcendent genius of the painters of 
the Middle Ages is unquestioned by any ; but 
life is wider than they ^nceived it, and 
modem art is striving after its fuller realisa- 
tion. It must present man in all the ways 
of his manifold nature, in his labours and 
struggles and pleasures, in the high places of 
history, in the still scenes of nature and of 
the home, and must carry into all the pure 
and warm breath of the gospel <tf Christ. 
Christianity standing apart in its simjAicity, 
separate oat friendly, will promote these 
ends as it helps men in society and true 
statesmanship, though it keeps itself fi-ee 
from political alliance and entanglement. 

In the world, but not of it," and yet it can 
give to all human life its own warmth and 
colouring. 



Silvio PelUco, in his story of imprison- 
ment, graphically describes a dungeon in 
Milan, on the walls of whidh he r^ the 
wridngs left by the ^evious inmates. Some 
were mere names and dates — some, rude 
degrading sketches — ■ some, sentiments of 
resignation and religion — some, scoffing 
atheism. It might be made a vivid picture 
of our passage Uirough the world, leaving in 
our narrow room some trace of ourselves to 
depress or comfort those who follow, and we 
ourselves quitting it for a tribunal. 

Dig,tizeciJefO€K)^ 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



I.— HOME NOTES. 

UK. GIADSTONS'8 PAPBK OK RITUAI. 

'pHE vhc^ reflding and thinking world has been 
in a flutter doling the greater part of the month 
orcrlir. Gladstime'B eaaay. There is something very 
vonderinl in the &ci£ties which the daily press and 
the dectric telegrai^ now g^ve Hoc spreading the 
thoughts of a great man in every directini, and Mng- 
ing back almost instantaneously ten thousand voices, 
eiUier of approval or disapproval, either echoing or 
contradtcdn^ deepening or reversing, or in some 
other -way modii^ring his utterance. We are tempted 
to dwell for a moment on the phenomenon as soch, 
and to ask our readers to fancy gathered together in 
one audience all the persons who a month ago were 
eagerly reading Mr. Gladstone's words, not only 
throQghout the British Empire, bat in countries far 
beyond. "What a magnificent audience I How vastly 
exceeding the numbers that were ever gathered in 
any one building! Then another thought arises. 
The great men whose single voice commanded the 
world's attention in other days had no such advantage. 
Not Luther, not Augustine, not Paul, n(»r— let it be 
said with reverence — our blessed L^rd himself. The 
fact that they were able, without our wonderful 
modem machinery, to HU the world with thdr words, 
is all the greater testimony to the intrinsic value of 
these words. In our days, a great man speaking on 
a great subject secures a world-wide audience without 
an effort. It was very different in days of yore. 

Mr. Gladstone's paper on ritual is an effort to 
transfer the subject on which men's minds are so 
much agitated irom the sphere of hot and excited 
polemics to that of calm philosophy. The view which 
he takes of ritual or ceremonial in worship is, that it 
is an endeavour to produce a correspondence between 
the outward form and the inward spirit — to make the 
outward fit the inward as closely as possible. He con- 
ceives that not merely in matters of worship^ but in 
matters of other kinds, the British nation as a whole 
have been iar behind other civilised nations in this 
matter of adaptation, and that very incongruous forms 
have been very fireqnently adopted to embody the un- 
seen or spirituaL He does not think that in any other 
nation but oois would a parish ball have been got up 
to Fd|aide funds lot the purchase of a parish hearse. 
W4^ve not been accustomed to study the fitness of 
thi^, and in the matter of wt^sbip many of us have 
leaned to a puritanic bareness, and an ntterneglectof 
the ssthetic. Bnt of late there has been a great 
advance in this respecL We have been improving 
in eveiy directkm, ud have been leaniing the art of 
maldng ontade and inside hamumise better with eadi 
other. And so we have made a great change in 
worship. Even die Scotdi, who constitotionally were 
most averse to anything of tixt kind, have given in, 
and not only may you now find among than chnxches 
of no small arcldteclural pretensions, but even organs 

IV. N. S. 



to acconqNmy Uw singing. Ritual, in its more general 
aspect, is the outying out of the same principle ; it is 
the result oS the eadeavom-f in regard to eveiy part of 
worship, to establish a hanntmioos relation between 
the act, and the form or manner of drang it So far 
as this is Us purpose and so far as It is wisely adapted 
to scne this pmpose, Mr. Gladshme tpptana of rita< 
alism. 

But even in this general aspect of &e subject, he 
allows that the thing may be abused. Instead (tf 
a help, litnal may be so overdone, or done so un- 
wisely, as to be a great hindrance to wcnship. 
Worshq), in its genuine perfonnancc, is a thing of 
the spirit. It is the act of the spirit realising the un- 
seen presence of the Eternal, and getting above every 
impression of sense under the overwhelming conviction 
of its nearness to God. It may be that external forms 
serve to bring it under the bondage of sense, instead 
of emancipating it from them, and cramp and hinder 
instead of aiding the spirit in its endeavour ,to reach 
the upper temple, and join, its worahq> to diat of the 
Seraphim. 

Hence the tests which Mr. Gladstone proposes in 
order to check any tendency. to excess in ritualism; 
the chief of which is, Is the practice proposed likely 
to bring men nearer to God in the act of worship, or 
to keep them further from Him ; to collect or dispene 
their thoughts, to warm or freeze their affections ? 

In the criticism of Mr. Gladstone's essay there has 
been bnt one voice as to the interest and abiliQr, the 
rare grace of style and manner, and the freshness of 
thought with which the subject has been discussed. 
At the same time there has also been a very general 
coiLcurrence of opinion, that he has left out the most 
pressing and really important question of ritualism. 
That question is, whether the ritualistic [Mactices 
recently introduced in the worship of Church of Eng- 
land congregations are not intended to cover and 
convey the peculiar doctrines of the Church of Rome, 
and whether the introduction of such practices ought 
not to be condemned and prevented as contrary to 
law, and inconsistmt witti the whole spirit of a 
Reformed Church ? Tias question Mr. Giadston^or- 
posely omitted as belonging, in his view, to a too 
polemical region. 

It is rathtf remarkable that in the tests which be 
suggests by which ritual practices are to be tried, 
Mr. Gladstone makes no allusion to the Word of God. 
In particular, he makes no allusion to a fact which has 
always been held a very important and rdevant one 
in discussions on forms of w^ship, that whereas under 
(he Old Teatunent a ray elab«ate ritual was pre- 
scribed, nnder tix New Testament there was notUng 
of the kfaid. There waa a very maiked transilioB 
fiom an elaborate to a very simile mode of worship; 
and the return from the simple to the ornate and ela- 
borate is more like a going back to lAatwas prepara- 
tory and imperfect, than a going on to what is spiritual 
and complete. I 
Digitized by VjOQgl 



138 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



One utterance of Mr. Gladstone's has been cordially 
welcomed by aU Protestants — bis hearty repudiation 
Rome and ber policy. Tbe idea of Romanising 
England and ber Chnrch be connts atterlybopeless 
and visionary. At BO time since the bloody reign 
of Maxy his sudi s sebeme been possible. "If 
it bad been posuble in tbe sercnteeirtb or eighteenth 
ceBtaries, it ymM stffl have beoome imponible ta the 
nmeteenth ; when Rome bas sabstftotud for the i»ood 
boast t^sempermdem a policy of vkrioHM and cbonge 
in faith ; when she has refurbished and paraded aMW 
every rmty tool she «M fondly thoaght to have dis- 
used; n^un no one cm beeomc her convert withoot 
bis mocil and mental fleedom, and {dtc- 
ing his civilloyatty and doty 2t the mercy of another; 
and when bas eqctaSy repodiated modern thoaght 
and attdtnt fabtoty."* 

Tbeie ire ibwhowMf wowb -words which no one 
can ftUKy that Rome ts Stely either to forgive or to 
fbrget. 

CHURCH C0ItOIXi& AND OTHKB. MHSTINQS. 

em 4» Unto- mam flun budyBdvert toOe 
great meetiDg of the Chnrch Co&gress at Brighton, 
nnderthe Bbhop of CUdiattr. Any one wbo per- 
fbmfl the itatielioa of a ncre amwlator, Md nAoae 
sut^eets are pMcHoiZ ad eadioUc, mmt be faafled if 
he were to attempt In a few linei to gbmee over so 
wide a field as that eccqiied by Ae Congress. We 
would r ath er advert iflerwaidi to some of the papers 
by thamehea, eipacially the mndi-admired pi^ of 
C^en- Tristram ok ChistiMuqr and Sdenee, or Aese 
on the Alt-Caihcdie mimment, whicbwe have noticed 
-n anodMT oohunn. The intereat ef the meeting was 
very great, tbe vast hsQ oiten caoCaisiDg four thousand 
persons. 

The Baptfet ITnioa of JEtaghMir and Wales has hdd 
its aotimnal sesalon MNewcaslfe, and (be Congrega- 
tionol Union at Hndderafield. At these meetings 
many of the great catholic questions of the day were 
dhcossed, m weU' as qoestions that have a special in- 
tenst Ibr the particiibr denominations. In both 
cases, the attendance was large, and the spirit Indica- 
tive of mmh life and earnest purpose. 

RETITAL IN BELFAST. 



I Great thongh the impresnen of Mr. Moody's 
earnest addresses was in Scothnd, it would appear 

' that (Q BdKiist it has been stiH more remariEable. It 
has teid OB various classes of tbe conunnnity, but 

I most of perhaps^ on the yotmg men. The meet- 

j lags of young men that have tak«i place have been 
very reniarkabte, and these net tbe unedacated rabble^ 
but represeating many of the best £imilies of the town. 
And the result boa been the consecration of hundreds 
to God^s service, with an ^>peaia&ce of eamestnesE 
and depth of fee^g that bas affi»ded the best grounds 
for belief in the reality of the change. Men of ex- 
perience, going to Bel^st, bear their testimony that 
the town is evidently full of the mo^-ement. It is not 



merely, they say, tbe four or five^ crowded meetings 
held every night that show this to be the case, but 
you have a kind of intuitive feeling as yon walk about 
and look at men's faces, and hear their voices, that a 
deep movement is passing over Qiem. 

Among the ordinary incidents of flie movement 
are cases of youi^ persons coming to their minis- 
ters eitbo- to ask how they may be saved, or how 
they may serve the SsviourdHy have found; Sonday- 
sduK>ls whore sremng petacma ask permiBsion to tpe$k 
eameitly to a class, or even a member of the chns 
hafp to be allowed to tell the rest of the treasnre he 
haa fcud ; teacben givi^ up tihtv wiotfc tar a time, 
becnise cMvinced of dwir aafitness in teach, and re- 
j tmaiag to it irith new fife and vannth, aft« them- 
jfldvva eoorins to know thn Savionr; a 7«iae 1**T 
getting good at an afiietnaenprayei>.maiting, retmviag 
with her two sistcn, bothoT whom obtained the blesa- 
mg, so liiat dl the Ore* go on their wi^ it^tacvag ; 
a whole Ronaa Ca Aolie family, lAo had been at one 
ot the open-air meetings lenonndng Popery, and fal- 
lowing tbe way of Ufe ; »31-giria hastily chang^g 
their dresa during fltefr dfamer hour, m order that Aey 
m^it spend it in the meetfaig ibr prayer. It is remark- 
aide how anxions those who are enttghtened immedi- 
abtlj become for dieir acquaintances and rdatives. A 
young man in a large business cstabUahment having 
himaeVbeeB changed, gaAered nnt day some of the 
men in tlie warebonse and spoke to them of what was 
going on. "What sort of meeting had yon last 
niglttP" one ofUiem lightly asked. His answer was, !{ 
" A meeting that has changed me for life, at any rate." 
Less than a week ailer, that man came back to tell 
him that his words had been ringing in bis ears ever 
since, and that he too had now, he trusted, become a 
changed man for life. In not a few cases, young men 
that have been in Bel&ut on bnsiness for a day or 
two, have gone to some of the meetings, and got 
saving good. 

"The spirit of prayer," says aBdfast dei^yman, 
" seems to be growing in depth and fervour. There 
does not seem, speaking generally, to be the same 
deep and awM sense of sin among those who ate 
awikened, as there was in 1859, but there ia a true 
feeling of the need of Christ aa oar Sacrifice and oar 
Saviottr." 

THE SOCUL SCnCNCB- MKCimG AT GLASGOW. 

We do not seem to be moving on very fast in aodal 
science ; the door swings vigorously on its binges, but 
there is not very much of forward motion. Tbere 
are few great discoveries, and diere are few fresh 
io^ralseSt Tear after year the sane topics axe ven- 
tOitied, and there is not a very great degree of difo- 
cnce in tiie results that Qow from the process. Lord 
Rosebery discusses the question of the working 
dasses, and finds the great spedfic for their evils in a 
bnmaziising edncation. Other gentlemen of distin- 
gnishsd alHlity discuss outstanding questions, such as 
health, law, education. Indeed, the principal interest 
of the congress now lies in the elaborate essays read 
by the presidents (rf the sections. These are all 
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THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



139 



men of mark, men to whtun the public ore glad to 
listen, men whose sentiments always excite intereit, 
apart from their intrinsic worth or fitness. I.ord 
Rosetiery, lor instance, is a yoiug noblemaa of great 
ability and promise, and whatever he says about the 
working classes wUl excite iaterest and command 
attention, thoagh otliers mayliave said it already, and 
the public may already have accepted it as mainly 
correct. It is of much importance, however, that 
such tO[»cs should be kept |»omiaently befoie the 
pobhc mind, and the meetings of the Association 
are doubtless of much service in this way. 

We cannot, however, congratulate the AssociatiMi 
on its somons. The people of Glasgow are under- 
stood to be quite ready enough to regard the tUngl 
of the present world as the chief object of their coa> 
ceni, without having this preached to them as a great 
Ouistiao duty; and the evolutionists are quite suf- 
ficiently dispMad to the doctrine that prayer on have 
no efficacy beyond tfie spiritual realm, without' 
being tao^t this iimn the pulpit But as a aiatier<of> 
fact critic has remarked, it will hardly do to tell a 
man anxious to send a message by telegram to Lon- 
don, tiiat he mmt content himself with the delightful 
fedtogs roused in his bosom by the varkjng of the 
telegraphic machine but never dream of lua mMU^e 
reaching Us destination. The proposed core of saper- 
stition in the matter of prayer is cettainlj to be 
ranked among the wonderful cum of our day. 

No man has better right to awUM a conBdsnt 
tonein matters of sodal science than Ixad Shaftes- 
fauiy, for no man has been more successAil in his 
jnactical eObits. The tone of his lordslup's addresses 
to the woridng men of Glasgow was very confident, 
"bat it WM the confidence of osie who felt deeply tiiat 
mm, ami asA first the Idngdon of God and his 
rightcoiBneis if they woold lave other tbingi to be 
added onto Onern. 

lUPKOVEUEHT OT SBKUONS. 

So mneh has been aaid of late against the quality 
of modem sermons, and eq>ecially against the way in 
which they are oflm ddiveied, that tptaH efforts to 
inatmct young preadiers is the art of making and 
preaching sermons are coming into moch greater 
pn»ninence than befive. 

The English Church Homiletical Sodefyis address- 
ing itself to the subject in eaniest. It proposes varioas 
methods for attaining its end. One of these is the 
delivering of lectures on the ordinary bcaaches of 
homiletics. Anotiier is, constituting a conunittee of 
trustworthy critics to whom young pteachers are to be 
encouraged to submit their manuscripts, and from 
whom they will receive auch criticism and advice as 
may aid them for the future. And a third if it can 
be carried out, — having meetings of members before 
whom sermons shall be preached solelyfor the purpose 
of their being criticized. This last method would be 
attended with the obvious difficulty that it is not pos- 
sible to deliver a sermon before an audience met to 
criticize it, as one might and ought to deliver it to an 
-audience as a mess^ Uoxa God. An uimatuial de- 



livery may be tlumght to be inevitable under sudi -an- 
natural conditionfi. This of course most be true to a 
certain extent ; yet it is certain that fair and whole- 
some criticism under such arcumstances is often 
attended with the greatest benefiL One of the most 
important and useful services which such societies can 
render to young preachers is to point out to them their 
faults before they have crystallized into habits, and set 
before them a higher aim and a purer model than 
they are odierwise ,like^ to form for themselves. 

It wiU generally be found true that men of real 
force make for themselves an effective vny of delivery, 
and that it is tlie fseUer twder of men that stand in 
so great need of correctiOD. FeeUeness is one of the 
most difficult things to mend throngh the aj^cation 
of any human instrumentaU^. But the very exist- 
ence of so juuch feebleneu in the pulpit may show 
the need there is for the psayar UMt Ae Head of the 
Church would siqiply for her servue men of «ar9eBt 
purpose and greet streng&, both physical ai^ qnritual, 
and dtat these be so trained to use thdr strong^ 
that the best reBDlts may fbttow^ and ^'aothiUig 
lost" 

IlfPSOTEUENT OF SIWGIWO. 

Though not on quite the same grounds, and not in 
quite the same manner, the improvement of ringing 
is regarded very justly as a most important object of re- 
gard. A recent President of the Wesleyan Conference^ 
Mr. Wiseman, has been referring to the subject, 
apropos of ^f r. Gladstone's remarks on the defective 
aesthedcs of our services. He does not agree with 
Mr. Gladstone in thinking tiiat in such matters we 
ve so f ar behind otho- dviEsed natioos. But as little 
does he agree with those who seem to think that all | 
(watteationooghtto be given to theepiritof worship, \ 
and Aat if that be rig^ tke estemal form is of tttii* ; 
orno caueqtwnce. b wluteva way we serve God, ; 
it ought always to be with onr best. Mr. Wiseman ' 
vent on to lecognise the tWD functions of aaaedsmg - 
— matte oaelund as GBByiBgqp onr feelings to God; , 
oD the odiar, as ea^we s sfaig trntii with qnritnal powcr 
and sweetness to men. The first b its chief fimctian, 
but the second is not to be ovetiooked. 

"As a ganeral mletfae ■Bpufdiouhi be congie* 
gatiooal ; taut it seemed to hott a yeew nsefal, and 
sometimes a very instructive, feature in (UvinewonUp 
to have a good anthem suitably rendered a choir. ^ 
He renntnbered going Wien a boy into a coflkfidral 
for the first time, and hearing an anthem the principal 
stmin ofwhsrii wa^ 'TcU it out amcmg the heathen 
the I.ord rdgnedi,' and he took an impresrioa , 
fioBi that day of a divine command to go and pceadi j 
tlkc gospd ; It produced upon his mind as pomcnul an 1 
impression as any sermon he had ever heard. If the I 
results of congregational singing could be calculated, ' 
it would be found to be a mission — a means of doing 
good. At the age af fifly his own mathematical : 
master, who had been a confinned infidel, heard some I 
hymns being sung, and said, * There is something in 
tlie hymns and rdigion of these people that I know 
nothing about ; ' and that was the foundation of a re- 
pentance which for a long period afterwards proved 
to be sincere, and ofanev ufe which had a^umph^ 

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SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



It is interestiiig to remark that the singing of Mr. 
Sankey, the companion of Mr. Moody, though pro- 
bably not present to Mr. Wiseman's mind when he 
made these remarks, bears in the same directioni uid 
has been in no small measure Messed. 

IL— GLANCES ABROAD. 

U. OUIZOT'S WILL AND CONFESSION OP FAITH. 

M. Gnizot did much for Protestant and Evangelical 
religion in his lifetime, especially in his later years ; 
but the remarkable declaraticm of his foith which he 
prefixed to his hut will and testament, and which has 
now been published, seems likely to place him among 
those lii^o, like Bamson, slay more at their death 
than in their life. He begins by sajring that he dies 
where he had the happiness to be bom — in the 
bosom of the Reformed Chnrch of France. Bat he 
had not been alwajrs there. He had gone the tour of 
the doubter. He had once believed that the light of 
reason was enough to enable men to solve all the 
problems with whidi tiiey are called to deal, and that 
thdr natonl strength, if rightly used, was emni^ to 
enable them to fulfil all the puiposes of their life. 
But after much and deep reflection, he came to a 
difierent conchraon. had found himself con- 
fronted by difliculties which he could not solve, and 
he had seen it to be his wiadom to resign himself, 
like a lUtle child, into the arms of One wiser and 
mightier than he. His words are memorable, and 
deserve to be remembered. 

"It is my profound belief that God, who created 
the nnivetse and man, governs and preserves or 
modifies them, whether by those general laws wUch 
we call natural laws, whether by special acts which 
we call supernatural, emanating like the natural laws 
from his perfect and free wisdom, and from his 
infinite power, which He has enabled us to reco^ise 
in their effects, and forbids us from being acquamted 
with in their essence and design. I thus returned to 
the convictions in which I was cradled, always firmly 
attached to the liberty which I have received from 
God, and which is my honour as well as my right on 
earth; but again feding myself a child in God's 
hands, and sincerely resignea to so large a share of 
ignorance and weauiess. I believe in God and adore 
Him, without attempting to comprehend Him. I see 
Him iHVsent and acting not oatr in the permanent 

fovemment of the universe, and in the innermost 
fe of men's souls, but in the histoiy of human 
socteOes, especially in the Old and New Testament — 
monuments of the divine regulation and action by the 
mediation and sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ for 
the salvation of the human race. 1 bow before the 
mysteries of the Bible and the Gospel, and I hold 
aloof from scientific discussions and solutions by 
which men have attempted to explain them. I trust 
that God pamits me to call mysdf a Christian, and I 
am convinced that in the light which I am about to 
enter we shall clearly discern the purely human origin 
and vani|^of mokt of oar dissensions here below on 
divine things." 

Such an utterance as this is fitted to have many 
efiects. First, on the Reformed Church of France, 
loved so well and prized so much by Guizot, which 
must surely fed itself under new obUgations to hold 



fast by that blessed gospel which was not only 
cherished by the greatest of her sons, but contributed 
to make hiai the great man that be was. Second, on 
Frenchmen generally, who, amid all their tossing and 
weltering on the restless sea of religions unbelief and 
political change, may surely learn something from the 
sight of one of their mightiest men standing calmly 
with his feet on a rock, and the dawn of a brighter 
day gladdening his eyes. Thirdly, on those among 
ourselves inclined to scepticism, and especially our 
men of science, who may surely learn that science 
will not solve the problems of life, and may surety 
believe that it cannot be the baseless fabric of a vision 
to wliich men like Guizot cling so confidently and 
joyfully. And lastly, on those praying mothers and 
sisters who are continually bearing their sceptical 
sons and brothers to the throne of grace, and who may 
take courage in the thought that He who bore Guizot 
from the dim chill regions of rationalism to the 
warmer and happier realm of iaith, is still the same, 
and able to do exceeding abwidaiitfy above all that 
we ask or think. 

Giiizot's is now another name in the glorious 
Calendar of Christian savans, and not destined, we 
trust, to be the last, whose example makes it plain 
that die highest inteOects can enter the kingdom of 
God as little children, and join as heartily as any in 
the song wfaicb gives all wisdom and honour and 
gloty and power to Hun that sitteth on the Throne 
and to the Lamb that was slain. 

in.— JOTTINGS FROM THE MISSION 
FIELD. 

UmNIGHT WORK IN THE LONDON CITY MISSION. 

We suppose there is hardly any of our Christian 
societies whose labours are so oidiUeimitting as those 
of the London City Misnon. The monthly reg^stn 
of its work is one of our most interesting journals, 
and presents a wonderful variety, though substantially 
the work is the same. Several of its missions, how- 
ever, are of a spedal chancter, and this circumstance 
affords materials for madi fi^^oess and variety. 
Here, for example, is the number of the Magazine for 
October, 1S74, and the first paper in its contents is, 
<< The Night-Cabmen's Mission." The Society has 
its missionary for them. The time to work among 
them is among "the small hours," — when the mid- 
night chimes are sounding, and for some time after. 
It is in those hours of the morning when, if one has 
occasion to pass along the streets, one feels so deso- 
late; not a shop lighted up, not a cheerful object to 
be met with, cits crawling over ruinous walls, and 
everything betokening desolation and dulness. Yet 
even then, there is in London a class of human beings 
pursuing their ordinary calling, not to be met with at 
other times. These are the night-cabmen, and when 
we know Bomething of their condition and cirxnim- 
stances, we see what fit objects they are for the care 
of snch a society. 

It is a curious piece of statistics, that taking the 
cab-driven of London, who amtpjnt^to^^^oq^J^ ) 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



141 



onmibas men who are about 10,000, and the stable- 
men and othere wlio may amount to 5,000 together, 
along with thdr families, the total is hardly less than 
70,000, eqnal to the population of what, a few years 
ago, would have been considered a veiy large town. 
Tin lately, no special efforts were made for the wel- 
fare of this class, and they were low enough in the 
scale ; but, recently, Lord*s-day Rest Societies, bene- 
fit dubs, libraries, rooms for the exposition of the 
Bible and for prayers, and cabmen's rooms at railway 
statums, have been opened, and done much good. 
Many cabmen bam gpt a Uessing, and some have 
bec<»ne city xamoaaaieB, Scriptnto readen^ office- 
bearen in CliriaQan churches, and superintendents of 
Sundqwhocds. 

The missioii to the ni^t cabmen was begun thirteen 
years ago. There were then 2,500 cabs working from 
nx at night to nx in the mcMiiing. The drivers of 
these cabs were at least two-thirds of them from fifty 
to eighty years of age, the old men preferring the 
night wort on account of their poor dodimg, whidi 
they did not like to expose by day. The horses and 
cals were in keeping the wont idnrays being worked 
at night ; so that what with the old men's patched 
great coats, often tied together with string instead of 
buttoned, their legs bandaged up in the same way, and 
an old rusty handkerchief round the hat, they looked 
as though they belonged to another generation. 

The night mission was begun by the wife of a 
clergyman who guaranteed support for one night mis- 
sionary for twelve months. This lady has fqund the 
means for supporting two night missionaries, now 
labouring with no small success among the night 
cabmen. When the mission was first begun, public* 
houses, cafds, and coffee-houses were open all night, 
filled with the woist of characters, drinking, smoking, 
and blaspheming. It was ia these that the mission- 
aries hftd to go to find the cabmen. But three years 
after. Parliament passed a bill closing the public- 
hoDses from one to four o'clock in the morning, and 
then came Mr. Bruce's Bill, closing them still further 
fit>m twelve to five. These measures caused a great 
general improvement. The missionaries now find 
the night catmien at the railway stations, at public 
ball-rooms, at Cremome Gardens, at the Houses of 
Parliament, and at the stands in the streets. For the 
most part the reception given them is most en- 
couraging, often the demeanour of the men is very 
affecting, and much good appears to be done. Copies 
and portioQs of the Scriptmes have been very service- 
able, and several have been guided to peace by their 
means. Hexeisaaacconntofavisitpaidtoa cabmen's 
coffise-honse at four o'clock one very cold morning : — 

" I found seventeen cabmen, two women, and two 
respectable men present. I gave them tracts, and 
one of the gentlemen a copy of the Briiish IVorkman, 
and commenced reading Maft. v. The one I gave the 
Briiish IVorkman to interrupted me, but was put 
down and obliged to listen or go out in the cold. 
He said, ' I am a Roman CathdUc ; I have been out 
to a party, and got a drop too much, and that is the 
Kason I am here.' I read and expounded that beau- 
tifiil diapter, and then said, * If any one has any ques- 



tions to ask, I will answer them.' He asked, ' Do you 
think these tracts and papeis do any good ? ' * Wei),' 
I said, * you have seen the catde - troughs about 
Xxindon?' 'Ves,* he said, 'and they are excellent 
things.' 'Very well,' I said, * the paper you have in 
your hand has done mudi in getting them ; for thh-- 
teen years ago, when' the water-posts were locked up 
at twelve o'clock, these cabmen could not get any 
water from them for their horses, and had to carry 
pails, and run to some pump. We reported the mat- 
ter, and the editor took it 19 in the Briiish IVork- 
man, and that was partly the means of securing for 
the cattle drinking-troughs in Ixmdon, Now do you 
think that to be any good i * He said, * I will read, 
and take care of your paper.' * Now,' I added, ' I 
will get these cabmen to tell us what good it has done 
them.' The landlady said, 'I know it did my poor 
father good, for the voax old man said so when he 
died; and I know it lua done roe good, and I hope 
yon will never pass my house without calling to see 
me.' A poor old cabman said, 'I know it has done 
me good, for this gentleman called on my wife when 
she died, and she made me promise to give up Sunday 
work, which^I did, and I now read the Testament and 
go to a little' meeting in our cxMitt* Another cabman 
said, 'It has dooe me good too, for this gentleman 
came into the hospital to see me.* Then another 
cabman said, ' God bless you, sir, your talking to me 
so reminded me of what my old mother used to say 
when I used to carry the luiton to H^t her to the 
little Wesleyan chapel in the country.' My Roman 
Cathohc fiiend appeared to be surprised that I was so 
well received, and seemed to be impressed when I 
urged him to seek a change of heart Iqr i^entance to- 
wards God, and fidth in our Lord Jesus CtnisL*' 

THE KEVIVAL IK TBATAKCOSE. 

A review of the results of Che revival among the 
Syrian Christians in Travancore {already referred to 
by us), after the lapse of six nmnttis^ is communicated 
by the Rev. J. Caley, Church missitniary at I^Ti-eDa. 
The revival, he says, does not appear to have spread 
in any remaricable way during the last six months, 
and in one congregation, at all events, the zeal of the 
newly-awakened appears to have somewhat cooled. 
But in the majority of cases the work has deepened, 
and the peo}je have beon preserved from those ex- 
cesses into which it was rumoured that many of them 
were drifting. The Commentary which Mr. Caley 
longs for has already been subscribed for to the extent 
of six hundred rupees. The necessity for it arises 
from the greatly increased study of the Scriptures, 
which has led in many instances to interpretations of 
difficult passages, often very far from the mark. 
Within six or eight months two thousand copies and 
portions of the Scriptures have been purchased by 
people eager to read them. A good feeling prevails 
between the members of the Syrian Church and other 
Cluistians. The Syrian catanais, or priests, have be- 
come more zealous and bold. At a recent festival 
Mr. Caley was glad to see one of them preaching 
boldly, surrounded by Hindus and Mahometans^ and 
answering their questions with great force. 

A still more remarkable evidence of revived spiritual 
life in the Syrian church is found in the Pastoral of 
the Patriarch, or Metran, Mar Athanasius. It ex- 
presses his joy at the visifc^^^of ^^.^^^IQ^ 



142 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



Lord has sent them. It counsels them to read the 
Word of God, and to continue in prayer, and entreats 
for them the ontpooring oF the Holy Spiiit. After 
vaiioos other oniisds, it concludes ibxe : — 

" Dear children, ye receivers of mercy, do not be 
high-minded. There is a thing which is called spiri- 
tual pride ; do not give place to it so as to give it 
control over yoa. The Pharisee who went into the 
temple to pray was ambitiotts in spiriL You have 
read what the result was. Remember always that 
our joamey is through this world, which is a sea of 
deception and strife, and is Adl of dangers from the 
-whirling waves, storms, and rocks. If the Lord Jesus, 
the alone wise Pilot, take the rudder in his hands, we 
shall safely reach the port of peace. We are lazy and 
forgetful ; if we see a shady restiufp-fdace, we wish to 
lie doym and sleep there, thinking is a pbce of re- 
freshment. No, no, above is our place of repose ; we 
are only travellers here, with a small quantity of lice 
packed up with us. Pray ye, therefore, in public amd 
in privat^ tiiat the gfood work which He has merci- 
fully begun in you may be complete and fruitful. It 
is not necessary to remain always in a state of rqiettting 
and soiTowing as those ammg whan our God is now 
working rqioitance. Reoiember the state of the 
publican and of the thief on the cross, but do not 
revile or disgrace any of these our weaker bcethren, 
but pcay for them that the work of the Lord may be 
eaecnted perfectly in them too, aod that thn also may 
be heirs of his salvation. Be ye filled with spiritual 
joy, and shme in the Hcdy SpinL Be ye Uled with 
the peace of Jesns Christ, which the world neither can 
give nor can take away, and show yourselves in yonr 
conduct and dealings, in speech, and in everything, 
that ye are the true servants of Christ Offer up your 
earnest prayers for our bishops, priesfs, and congrega- 
tions. iCnow ye that, if Crod be willing, all these dry 
and perished bones w^ obtain life ?" 

THE ALT-CATBOUCS.— INCIDEirrS OF PEItSECU- 
TION. 

Owing to pecnliirdrcomtmcei, we were prevented 
from noticing in oar krt number the meeting of the 
Alt-Catholics at Bonn* and the remarkable eesifenace 
on important paints <^ doctrine between them and 
some distinguished ministers of the Church of Eng- 
land. The object being to shadow f<Rth a basis for 
anion with otber Chnrches, a number of points were 
I considered on which primS facie difference might 
' have been anticipated. Under the presidency of 
Bollinger, it appeared thai there was far closer agree- 
ment thou would have been thought, though it must 
be admitted that in this country many persons have 
been taken aback by some of the concessions made 
by the English clergymen who were present. 

At the great Church of England Congress at 
Brighton, the subject of Alt-Cathohcism was the first 
! handled. Two papers were contributed regarding it 
! — one by the Bishop of Winchester (Dr. Harold 
i Browne), the other by the Rev. Professor Mayor. 
The Bishop's paper was chiefly a historical review of 
the rise and the position of the Alt-Calholics. He 
thought that, in the circumstances of the Continent, 
they were the only body likely to stand between the 
two great continental forces — Ultramontaoism on the 
1 one band, and Atheistic Materialism on the other. 
He thought that the ptdicy of Bismarck would ntfaer 

], ^ 



tend ultimately to the benefit of Ultramontanism, and 
that the battle would lie between the extremes of faith 
and no faith. If the AU.CathoUcs nuuntained their 
position, scriptural and primitive cstholicitjy th^ 
might yet prove to be the best medium for nnking ] 
the conflicting elements of divided Christianity. ' i 

Professor Mayor's paper was chiefly a record of i | 
bitter persecutions endured by distinguished mon aod ' | 
women who would not detUe their coosoiences by adr 
mitting the Pope's infallihility. We give one or two 
samples. The first relates to a lady who had been | 
active in woriu or mercy. j 

" Amalie von Lasaubc, or Sister Augnstine, was 
bom at Coblenta, Oct. iMb, 1617 ; in 1849 she was 
summoned to take charge of the newly-founded St 
John's Hospital in Bann. Twice she intenrupted her '. 
residence, in 1864 and 1866, to follow the Russian ' 
armies in Schleswig and Bohemia. Her organizing 
power and tact were as (onspicoons as her sof-dero- ' 
tion. ' Many an ornament of the hospital chapel 
came from hands seldom opened for Catholic pmposot, . 
many a heart estranged from God had been broa^ht j 
backbyher to the way of righteousness.* From over- 1 
exertion in 1^64 she contracted an affection of the j 
lungs, and after Ae winter c£ 1871 seldom rose from , 
her bed. lEarly in November her si^«iiots from • 
Nancy and Treves demanded a ronfession of hei faith. I 
' Thank God,' she says, ' I gave it according to troth, 
duty, and conscience. Yesterday they deposed me, 
and the new Superior ifi already come. Formypart, I 
rejoice exceedingly to enjoya little of thatpainfnl per- 
secution whicfa haa ovatakra so many. Love me still 
and pray for me. Thank God, I can hope for a speecfy 
death.' ' Broken in health and heart, escorted try one 
faithful sister, she took refuse inVallendar Hospital, 
and stoutly resisted all intimidation. The threat held ' 
out by her superiors on her death-bed, that her corpse 
should be stripped of the habit of her order, was 
carried oat It was borne with wo eKort bitf the 
ferrymen of Vallendar across the Rhine to Weisaen- 
thurm, where the parishioners, in gratitude for a 
chapel boilt gratis oy her father, had assigned the 
Lasaulz a family vault. The Vatican cleigy held aloof, i 
For hoois the coffin stood unprotected in the sbvet, 
till her friend, the Dowager Eiincess of Wied, had it 
taken into a bouse, and a group of moumeis from 
Bonn, and many villagers, followed it to the grave. 
The relations refused trie offer of the suspended Bonn 
professors to perform the last rites. Even if a fimeml 
oration had been allowed, it would have been need- 
less ; as all present had for years witnessed itxx Anit- 
ful labours. Herself she sacrificed during life ; her 
conscience and reason she dared not sacrifice. The , 
little company of outcasts dispersed with the feeling 
*dass es schon sei, so gelebt za haben, und noofa | 
scbdner, so za sterben.' They had laid her 1^ the I 
stream on whose banks she |dayed as a child, and 
which had brou^ her so many ships freigtited with 
wounded. She nad begged the physician to warn her 
of the approach of death. When he did so, she said, 
' Well, I rejoice that I come so soon to my Lord 
God. He will be to me a mote nadons Jndge than 
men.'" 

Sometimes the persecotion is from the |)eople. So 
it n-as hi the case oF— 

"Pastor Hosemann, a Benedictine of Tsnten- 
hausen, the residence of a wonder-worktng image, 
when he began to preach against false miracles. The \ 
craft of the publicans and purveyors of provisions was |, 
in danger. They tesolvedpt^ sta^c^ him out. The 



THE EDITORS ROOM. 



M3 



baker would not furnish him with bread, thfe butcher 
with meat. He contracted with a baker to supply him 
from M unieh, and for meat kept rabbits,' having nearly 
two buadred in his pens. The ptoi^ after his ex- 
commuaicatioB bdieved that he wis metamoqihoeed 
into a demon, such as they korw from prints. He 
bid them feel his forehead* whether horns were sprout- 
ing, and assured them he had never felt so happy and 
ttasy in conscience as when he rad the anauiema 
levdiad at him. He m now a zealoui mtnioBary in 
Sooth BadtDt jmi unweariodm the church and schools 
of his head-quartCDf. Conataace." 

TbaBOstRinailcBUBcaMsafpenecatioB aretboee 
vAid mn coodiiettd toriMoat bishops i^aimt 
thoMirbam ttcylnd tmq^ to disb^mia Umin^ 
ihlHfaility. Sndi cases were bat tocr nuBOMiu. 

QUmtt-CHfLDMN IN CANADA. 
Of the wonderful transformation which onr neglected 
children at borne undergo when -sent to Canada under 
dbacge of the Uad ChristiaD ladies who watch over 
them so carefully, we have had reoewed proof in read- 
ing an OccasioDol Riper just issued by the promoters 
of the " Emigration 'Home for Orphan and Destitute 
Children," at 6t Lauriston Lane, Edinburgh. The 
paper tells the ^toiy of thirty-one children who have 
been tdttn to Canada during the present season, and 
most, if not all, of whom arealreadyin situations of com- 
fort. It was the lot of the present writer to see the patty 
on their journey, and so t e nder did some of the little 
plants appear that k seemed as if they were alike no- 
fit for the tear and wear of the journey, and unlikely 
to be anything but mcnmbrances on their aitival. In 
place, however, of these fears being verified, the report 
shows that these very anall emigres have been mostly 
adopted mto famiUes^ where, ibstead of senants, th^ 
vnll be treated as sons and daaghteiB. These is 
something almost romantic in the notices of some of 
Uiem. 

**E., E., and D. S., two sisters and a brother — no 
mother — father commonly in jail — children found in 
a disteptitable lodging-hoose.' ' The other side of the 
picture fdlows, Have now good homes." The 
report of dw elder sister is, " She is doing first rate, 
aiKi is an eaoellsnt girh The yomiger sister and 
broUicr are tog^dut nidi a lady iriio wishes- to a^ipt 
them as hv own if asored that the father will not 
hiterfiR.*' 

TtenezteaeiBiMEeMBulmbla ; itistiataf tiro 
chfldreo whoH mother ms dead, and who were 
Tittariyiie^ectidbytftairfufaer. lowers finsidin 
a bare loein without flnnitnte, lying on the bare floor 
with M»te bricks fat a |dDov, the bther occ^iyiDg a 
ctxner, comed with acoal<aacJt. The ladur having 
<fied fiOB the eftcts of diinh, the girls woe Aia 
vanaatt taken to Canada, where they have been 
adopted by a Christian lady, under whose roof they 
Be described an '* dean, ptct^, and irttractise." 

But the case of J. G., a boj three years dM, the 
ddU tii a very poor widoiw, fiimiBhes the cHmaz : be 
has been adopted by a man o£means andiofluence, to 
be brought op as his own son. "No wonder thon^," 
an old helper writes, '< I did not know the pretty b<qr, 



beautifully dressed in white, with fancy boots, blue 
velvet hat, and such a sweet little f&a, evidently much 
set by." This, indeed, seems to be going just rather 
too far ; yet there is force in the remark of the pro- 
meters GcT the scheme, that in God's wonderful 
economy of grace there is not one of us who does not 
receive treatment that in a sense is far too good, but 
that it would not be very becomii^ if the ang^ were 
to complain that for beings so unworthy a coarser 
place than heaven would be quite enough." 

Here is an extract from a letter of Bilbrongh's, 
showing how an infant of two was disposed of : — 

" About a fortnight ago I was taking some children 
to a new district near Ottawa, and coming out of 
church, I heard a man asking if Miss Bilbrough had, 
any children in the Home ? * Yes ; but oidy small 
ones.' < Oh, never mind, I want one eighteen monthi 
old,' He came to see me. I found him satisfactory ; 
family grown up, only one daughter at home ; so I 
promised to go back and bring him ' the baby.' I ; 
took him with some others, and, on airivlng, Bfr. 
S. met me and said, * Which is my boy P * took the 
child in his arms in great admiration, twoug^ him to 
his wt^ who had a parcel of hw^i** ready, and with 
the iNXNaise that he ^bonld < drive Charlie,' Willie was 
persiaded not to- cn^, and drove home ten miles with 
nis new parents. I went to see them in the evening, 
and to get the papers signed, and found them all in 
raptures over * the beautiful child.' " 

UADAGASCAS. 
After an absence of fifteen months. Dr. MuBeos and 
Mr. Fillans, the deputation from the London Mission- 
ary Society to Madagascar, have returned to this i 
country. Our readers know the circomstances under 
which they went out. The conversion of the Queen 
and the burning of tiie idols had bron^t over a 
vast proportion <rf' the population to at least nomi- 
nal Christianity. Ttas had thrown much work on 
the missionaries, and often it was very perplexing 
work. Fresh help was needed, more missionaries 
were sent out, large districts were demanding evan- 
gelical teaching, and in short a revision of the whole 
plan of operations was called for. The deputies had 
visited aU parts of tfie conntry where churches have 
been estaUished, and where their establisbment is 
denred or proposed. They confessed honestly that 
they did not firid the coimtiy or the Christian com- 
monity all that they expected. They had, howmr, 
seen much that was very iideresting and remarkable. 
They had met relatives of the martyrs and persons 
who had been icdd into shveiy Sat their adherence to 
Oe goapd in the days of penecBtiaii, these fiumingtiM 
flower of the congregattana. ^n. many places they had 
found a woxlerfiil cageness for the Bibie and far 
education, and the Qocsn and her has band, the 
Vnme Mhiister, had received &em most gvadoosly. 
To the adifress to the Qaeen from the directon, '^ddi 
they had carried o^ they had broogfat badt an aaswer 
written by one native and emboased by another, an 
admiraUespeeinKnofworkntanBliip. The sentimentx 
gave pecnliar satisfkctiai, being a confession of the 
Qaeen and her husband's love to Cfaiist, cottf dence 
in the mission/ and promise of protection. Thf^HiQle . 



144 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



coQntry of the Itovas they found open to Christian 
instruction, and craving for it, while in the outlying 
districts there ««e chinches vhich no missionary had 
ever seen. One place had twelve churches, while 
there irere only seren people in it who could read ; 
yet die people there meet, and talk, and pray, and 
try to edify one another. There are chapels holding 
fifteen hundred full every Sunday in those remote 
parts. The work ia gtnng on in a fashion, but not, 
of course, as it would do if there were a toffideat 
nomber of qualified teachos. In the capital the great 
want is a de^er spiritual life. 

It win not smprise the enlightened fiiend <d mis- 
acnu to receirc these somewhat chequered tidings. 
It is not at once that Chriatiamty in a new eonntiy 
reaches its best, bat often slow and ludtmg steps. 

I^. Mullens has come to flie cmdulon that the 
populate of Madagascar has been om-estiniated. 
It used to be called five millions, but we tUnk that 
half that nmnber wonld be a nearer approach to the 
truth. Sometimes there has also been an over- 
statement of the number of Christians. Thenominal 
adherents to Christianity amount to three hundred 
thousand, abont an eighth of the whole popnlatiou. 
Of these there are some sixty thousand church mem- 
ber^ but instead of finding matter for congratulation 
in the largeness of this number, Dr. Mullens would 
evidently desire its redaction. There are, he says, 
about twenty-five thousand of whom the misuonaries 
entertain a (avourable opinion, and it is from these 
that the good and active persons must be found by 
whom the real work of Christianity will be carried on 
among the population at large. 

Of the Christian character of the Queen he evi< 
dently holds a very favourable opinion. His im- 
presdon is that there is no single person in the 
island of Madagascar who has a more deep and 
solid interest and regard for the progress of the 
Malagasy . people in all that is right and holy and 
good, for the instruction of the young and the 
growth of piety among the old than the Queen of 
Madagascar herself. She and her Prime Minister 
had sfaovm to the deputation the utmost kindness, and 
had manifested a very deep interest in all they saw and 
did. They wished them to assure the London Mis- 
sionary Socieiy of their deep gratitude to them for all 
they had done in Madagascar. 

The subject of the relation of Church and State in 
Madagascar was touched on by Dr. Mullens. It would 
^pear that the authorities are disposed to take more 
charge of religions matters than he thought right, the 
more especially that the people are accustomed to look 
to the Queen for the guidance and regulation of all 
their affiurs, dvil and religions. Whatever the 
authorities might do, the English missionaries in 
Madagascar hold with their brethren at home, that the 
Christian Church should stand by itself, rdy on its 
own resources, be a spiritoal body resting on the faith 
and love it had for the Lord Jesus Christ, seeking its 
laws, its guidance, its instmctioD, and its diidpUne, 
from the Lord Jetna alone. 



ABYSSINIA. 

What of the country that a few years ago cost us 
so mnch trouble and money ? Our quarrel was not 
with the pec^Ie, but with a foolish king, now suc- 
ceeded by another. Is ai^tbing doing in the way of 
shedding over the kingdom die U^t ctf fife ? 

The Monthly Rqxuter of the Bible Sodet^ gives 
us some interesting infcmnation respecting the results 
of some KUes circulated there, ^le accoonts occur 
in a letter fiom 3fr. Flad, a misstonary who left 
Europe ia October, 1873, to take bad: to Al^ssiaia 
four jrousg men iriio had been instmcted bt a man- 
ber <tf years at the ]bistitBtion of Chrithona. in Basd. 
Mr.- Flad writes ^— 

" I have heard gladdening accounts in reference to 
the copies of Holy Scriptures which I sent three years 
ago from Matamma to the interior. The hearts of 
many Abysstnians have been enlightened, priests and 
laymen have risen at many places, gathered the 
people, read before them the Word of God in Am- 
nanc, and testified gainst the errors of the Abyssinian 
Church. Also among the Jews is a process of fcr- 
mentatiou going on. 

Ethiopic-Amharic psalms are frequently bought, 
and I have sold at Matamma a number of copies to 
the amount of twenty-three Maria-Theresa dollats, 
whereas the pemle will not yet P*T ^ Amharic 
(5opies separated from the Ethiopic The king him- 
seu has sent to ask me f(»- a numbo- of Etmopic- 
Ambanc psalms, and I shall, in the name of the 
British Siole Society, present him with a chest con- 
taining such psalms and also Amharic books. His 
Majesty is desirous that the New Testament should 
be printed with the Ethiopic and Amharic texts in 
paralld columns. I am sure diese copies would be 
sold, introduced into the churches, recommended by 
the priests to the laymen ; and finally, the Amharic, 
bdng the vulgar tonguei would dislodge the Ethiopic 

"Last year six^-nine converted Jews were bap- 
tized, uid one hundred and twen^ more are prqured 
and ready for baptism." 

rV.— MEMORIAL RECORD. 

The French Reformed Church, while mourning and 
yet rejoicing in connection with Gaizot's translation to 
the ranks of the church triumphant, has also to cherish 
the memory of another layman, M. Tonpe^ 

converted many years ago irom Romanism through 
Adolphe Mcmod. He was the chief promoter of the 
summer Protestant colony of bathers, and of the 
Maison Evangeliqne at Bouxeval, Calvados, We find 
a notice, too, of the death of Mrs. Medhubst, for 
many years the wife and acdve helper of the mission- 
ary to China who made the name so familiar to us. 
A veteran missionary to India, John Lawkencs of 
Monghyr, has passed away, ailer labouring for forty- 
one years' without any break — a case quite un- : 
parallded. He had just returned home in hopes of 
obtaining a remedy (ot failing eyesight, when he was 
seized with sudden illness, and died. The long, 
devoted life of such a man, and the happy ccmtent 
withwhidi he spent it, woridng for his Master, is in 
itsdf an at^nment for Cbriatianity, a proof that such 
service is a something veiy diiiierent from a' trifling 
away of tme's life. ^ 

Digitized by VjO 



BESSY WELLS. 



MS 



BESSY WELLS. 

By Mas. HENRY WOOD, Author of " East Lykne," " Oswald Cray," sic 




CHAPTER VH, — THE KING OF TERRORS. 

OR about 
a week 
Roger 
Wells 
went on 
very well. 
At the end 
of that 
time a 
change 
for the 
worse set 
in, and he 
was in 
great dan- 
ger. The 
doctordid 
not think 
he could 
save him. 
Wells 
knew his 

own danger, and was afraid to die. Jenny, the 
Bible-woman, came in to talk to him and to 
pray by his bedside, but he did not seem to 
derive comfort. Conscience, aroused at last, 
was tormenting him with what has been well 
called its adder stings. He lay there groaning 
and sighing, terrified at the prospect opening 
to him. Death was at hand, and he was about 
to appear before his Maker, the great, awful, 
All Mighty God, whom he had neglected. He 
could not remember to have said a prayer for 
many a year for either guidance or forgive- 
ness. He had gone on recklessly, and done 
ill continually : just as though he had ex- 
pected this world and his life in it to last for 
ever. 

He would have turned, and twisted about 
in the bed, in his soul's anguish, but that the 
injuries arising from the accident prevented 
it. He was confined to one position, lying 
on his back, and was helpless to move, save 
that he could stir his arms. This enforced 
<iuietude of body served but to increase the 
restlessness of spirit, to augment its dreadful 
torment. . 

" I'm afraid to die," he cried out one night 
when he was at the worst, and the doctor 
had gone away with very faint hopes that 
Wells would be alive in the morning. '* Oh, 
can't anybody save me ? I dare not die." 

IV. N.S. 



" Father," said Bessy, with streaming eyes 
in her deep distress — and she was then 
alone with him, for Martha Jones had gone 
to her own room to take a bit of needful 
rest — "father, couldn't you just ask Jesiis 
to forgive you ? Oh, if you would 1 if you 
would ! " 

" I've never done a thing for God, I've 
never cared to think of Him, and now He is 
going to take me, and I'm not ready," panted 
Wells, his white face covered with the dew- 
drops of agony. " What will become of me ? 
What shall I do ? " • 

" But, father, Jesus Christ stands ready to 
save," sobbed Bessy. " He is standing always, 
waiting for us to turn to Him. I saw Him in 
my dream in the beautiful garden. His hands 
were stretched out to us, and 'He was looking 
at us with a smile of welcome, inviting us to 
come; asking us, as it seemed, to turn to 
Him. I saw Him, father." 

Wells, aroused at last by Bessy's distress 
to listen to her worcLs, lay staring at her, won- 
dering whether she was dreaming then. 

" Asking who ?" 

" All of us, father — us poor people that 
live in Peter's Court, and the other poor 
people in all the world. Oh, father. He will 
pray to God for you, if you don't know how 
to do it yourself; and He is sure to be 
heard." 

" I've been a careless sinner," lamented 
Wells, throwing his arms up — "a careless, 
wilful sinner. I've kept from pra5'ing on 
purpose. I wouldtfi jway." 

" But , it was the sinners Jesus game to 
save," urged Bessy, her lips quivering and 
trembling. . " Mother used to say so. Jenny 
says so. The Bible says so." 

Comforting words, no doubt. Bui Wells 
w;as not in a state to listen to them, or to take 
them to himself. His mind was too full of 
agonizing fear just then to admit of even a 
ray of comfort All the dread threats of 
denouncement that God has held out to 
sinners were beating their terrors in his brain 
and heart. Passages of Scripture that he had 
learnt in childhood, and flung out of mind 
ever since, came back now with tenfold force. 
" There is no peace, saith my God, to the 
wicked;" and Wells was feeling himself most 
wicked amid the wicked in this awakening 
hour. ^ I 

'•And I saw the dg^g^i^^ VasjO^glC 



T46 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



stand before X}od; and the books were 
opened : and another book was opened, 
which is the book of life : and the dead were 
judged out of those thin^ which were written 
m Uie books, according to their works. And 
the sea gave up the dead which were in it ; 
and death and hell delivered up the dead 
which were in them : and they were judged 
every man according to their works. Aud 
whosoever was not found written in the book 
of life was cast into the lake of fire." 

Accordi^ to their works. \Vhat had his 
been? Roger Wells only saw too plainly 
now. 

"What can I do to be saved?" he cried 
out in his extremity of anguish : as anotlier, 
aud probably a better, inan, that we read of, 
had cried out before lum. " What can I do 
to be saved ? " 

Bessy's tears were raining down. She 
wrung her hands in her bitter dismay and 
distress. 

" The wicked shall be tunjed into hell, 
and all the people that forget God," groaned 
Wells, his hair rising on end with his mind's 
terror. " Flung into hell ! and to be tormented 
day and night there for ever and ever ! " 

"Oh, father, don't, don't 1" sobbed- Bessy. 
*' Jesus Christ is waiting to save you from it, 
no matter how wicked you have been." 

" Don't talk foohshness, -child," rebuked 
Wells. "As if Clirist would save a sinner 
like me." 

" Oh, but He does — He will I " answered 
Bessy, kneeling down because she could stand 
no longer, and putting her hands together in 
a beseeching attitude on the side of the bed. 
" He came on purpose to save sinners — on 
purpose, father." 

" There's no time. I can't ask Hira." 

" But there is time," said Bessy. " If you 
would but just ask Him. You've only got to 
do that." 

" I tell you there can't be time," groaned 
Wells. " If I'd wanted Him to hear me now, 
at the last hour, I should have sometimes 
thought of Him before." 

" Let me say you a h)TOn, father," implored 
Bessy, not knowing what to do, and almost 
as frightened as he was. " I learnt it a long 
while ago, and used to say it to mother. 
It ■■ 

" Learnt it where ?" questioned Wells, into 
whose mind an under-current of wonder was 
beginning to penetrate at hearing Bessy say 
all this, and as to where she could have 
picked it up. 

"In one of my old books — 'Mrs. Pro- 
priety.* Ifs my favourite hymn, father; I 



always say it before I go to sleep. May I 
say it now? It won't take long." ] 
And, receiving no check, she stood up and , 
began. 

' Come, ye linneni poor and wrstchcd, I 
Weak and wouodn], lick and lore \ 
Jcsui ever itandi to lave you, I 
l^uU of pity joioed With power. i 
He is nble ; He !• wtltior ; 

Doubt no mota. | 

" LM not roDxcience make 3-00 linser, j 

Or of fitncM fondly dream ; , ' 

All the iiCneis Ho regnireth ] 

Jt to feci your need of Him. ' 

Tbi) He yivei you ; , 

Til his Spirit's rising beam. 1 

*' Come yc mtaj, heavy l.-iden. 

Lost and mined by the fait ; ' 

If you tarry till you re Uetter, | 

Yon will never come at all. ' I 

Not tbe rigliteous, ( 

Sinners Jesoi came to Ciill." I 

Wells had remained still while she recited j 
the verses. Perhaps they brought a dawn of ■ 
comfort to his troubled soul. He lay looking 
at Bessy. 

"You hear, father? It is all true. You 
must go amid all your sin. You'll not go at 
all if you wait till you're better. If there had ' 
been no sinners, Jesus need not have come 
down to die. l-'ather, do you know what 
Jenny says?" 

Wells made a movement of denial. 

" It was when I was telling her my dream. 
She says Jesus stands to call us all. He is 
always calling. There's not anybody that 
ever lived but what He calls, though so many 
do not heed it ; and she thinks this accident [ 
was meant as a call to you." 

" I'm not fit," groaned Wells. 

Bessy entwined her weak fingers in and 

out of one another in her distress. " Oh, j 

father, father, think what (he verse says, [ 

I 

'All the fitness Ho rcquircth " ' 

Is to feel your need uf Him.' ! | 

Don't you feel the need, father ?" t 

If the man did not acknowledge that he 
felt the need, he at least did not deny it. In 
good truth, he felt the need of something 
with his whole heart Bessy took the silence 
to her comfort. 

"And you know, "father, it says also that it 
is He who gives ns this feehng of need ; that 
it is his Spirit's rising beam. Father, father, 
I think it is coming to you. Oh, don't you 
let it go away again !" 

The latch of the door was lifted at this 
moment, and Richard Sale came in. Bessy, 
who had not the strength of "Other girls, was 
exhausted with the scene, and began to sob 
and cry. A woman in the next room hearing 
this, came out and took her away. 

" We've got a bit o' 8aiffipi|%jpi§htJ^i> 



BESSY WELLS. 



'47 



A morsel o' cheese and some radishes. You 
shall come and eat a mouthful." 

Sale sat down on one of the backless 
chairs ; he had come to take his turn of tend- 
ing on the sick man. When the mind is in 
that state of dire distress and tribulation that 
death, when it is feared, too surely brings, for 
it has been only too aptly called the King of 
Terrors, all other emotions are lost in it 
The interests of this world take to themselves 
wing^ and flee away : they are gone : and we 
are enteriog on that dread, unknown world 
that has to come. During his careless days 
of health, Roger Wells would never have given 
utterance before Sale to the fears that were 
overwhelming him, or before Bessy either, or 
any one else; but he poured them out now. 

" It has been a'most all through the drink 
that I've gone wrong," he 'groaned. " But 
for that, we'd never need to have broke up 
our home and come to live in this poisonous 
place, and perhaps the wife needn't have 
died. I've not been as bad for the drink as 
some are, but Fve been bad enough for it to 
keep me down." 

*' It is just that — drink — that has been the 
bane of my life," said Sale meekly. And 
Wells, even in his remorse of mind and pain 
of body, felt surprised to hear it, for he knew 
Sale was a strictly sober, well-conducted man. 

" No, I have never drank myself," said 
Sale, answering the look, " but my father 
did. He was a printer in a country town, a 
master in a small way, and he brought us up 
well for the first years of our lives, and 
educated us. Our mother was a religious 
woman, atid we learnt nothing but good from 
her. These good mothers are just a blessing 
from God." 

Wells put his hand across his eyes, and for 
a moment realised the truth of Uie remark. 
He thought of what his wife had been ; he 
thought of the words Bessy had spoken that 
night. Yes, yes; a great blessing. But for 
her training of Bessy, how would the child 
have learnt them, and the comfort they 
should foripg? 

"The habit grew upon my father insi- 
diously," went on Sale. " We did not suspect 
it for a long while. In time it obtained entire 
hold of him, and was his ruin and his family's. 
Just as we, his sons, needed to be placed out 
in life, his home and his business were alike 
sold up ; we had to go out into the world to 
rough it, and to earn a living how we could. 
I did pretty weU, though ver>" difierent from 
what I had once expected to do, and earned 
fair wages, and then moved up to London j 
here to earn better. But pretty soon illness 



overtook me. I've heard say tliat your wife 
had the same — -rheumatic fever — and it left 
me, as it did her, with my hands crippled. 
That brought me in time to Peter's Court ; 
and its stifling atmosphere, together with 
their privations, killed my wife and children 
one after the other." 

"Ah," groaned Wells. " If a man wants 
to have peace on his death-bed, let him keep 
£rom drmk. It deadens his feelings to all 
good, especially to God." 

""To overcome is a great thing: and all 
can overcome if they will," rejoined Sale. 
" And then what a promise is theirs I ' To 
him that overcometh will I give to eat of the 
tree of life, which is in the midst of the 
paradise of God.'" 

Wells caught up his breath with a sobbing 
sigh. He had never striven to overcome ; 
and now the day might have gone by for it 
Would God give him yet a litUe time ? Ah, 
he could not tell. In his dir6 tribulation he 
lifted his pale face and his trembling hands, 
murmuring forth his first faint imploring 
prayer to the throne of heaven. 

CHAPTER VIII. — FAINTING AWAY. 

Several days passed, during which Roger 
Wells lay between life and death, and then 
he began to mend. At least, the doctor 
began to say that he might live. Through- 
out all those days — there were seven or eight 
of them — he had been expecting to die ; and 
oh, what a long period of time it had seemed 
to him ! As one hour passed he did not 
know but he might die the next ; when the 
twilight faded at evening he was not sure of 
seeing another dawn. Never a minute of the 
time passed but his thoughts were bent on 
God and the Great Day of Reckoning, and 
on what his eternal fate would be. In sheer 
despair, in the absolute necessity to turn 
somewhere for relief from his terrors, he did 
at last turn to the only source from whence 
relief could come ; and ere those days of 
peril were over, he was praying heartily and' 
incessantly, " Lord, be merciful unto me ! 
Heal my soul, for I have sinned against thee." 

" And God has been merciful to me," he 
told himself, when assured tliat the danger of 
death had passed ; and the tears of thankful- 
ness, that He should have been so merciful, 
ran down his wasted face. So merciful to 
him, the careless sinner ! 

Mr. Stafford had come to Peter's Court 
occasionally, and had always teft money with 
Bessy, so that they were not at fxaXt for 
means to live. During one of his inttfvfews . 
with Wells, when the man ftiffiti^d fteWrst, 



148 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



antidpating that every other moment would 
be his last, he had poured forth all his woes 
and his repentance to Mr. StaflFord, striving 
to gel a gleam of comfort even from him, 
just as a drowning man catches at straws. 
A gentleman who was leading a good and 
thoughtful life, and was no doubt living a 
vast deal nearer to God than Wells had ever 
lived, might perhaps pity him, and pray for 
him, and help him. So reasoned Wells ; at 
least, as far as he was capable of reasoning ; 
but Uie turmoil of mind he was in did not 
allow much of that. 

Altogether Mr. Stafford grew to like Wells, 
to have a good opinion of him as regarded the 
future; and he determined to help him in his 
endeavours to lead a better life, so far as pro- 
viding him with constant employment went, 
and the chance of making his home in a 
more wholesome place than Peter's Court 
How could the men who lived there, Mr. 
Stafford asked himself, amid all its depressing 
drawbacks and evil examples — how could 
they get above its influences? Mr. Stafford 
promised him permanent work in his service 
as under gardener, finding that gardening 
had been the original occupation Wells was 
brought up to, though he had quitted it for 
another of late years. 

" And you can find a lodging or a small 
cottage down by me, Wells," remarked Mr. 
Stafford, *' and leave this pestiferous court for 
good." 

Bessy clasped her hands in silent ecstasy 
for her father's sake as she listened. To be 
always in that beautiful garden ! Why, it 
would seem Hke living in heaven ! 

" But I only offer you the place on the 
assumption that you will be steady and keep 
it," explained Mr. Stafford. " Were you to 
fall hack into idle or otherwise bad habits, 
I should not retain you. Of course you 
understand that, Wells." 

" I don't think I shall ever fall back to 
them, sir," replied Wells with meaning em- 
phasis, as he gazed up yearningly and earnestly 
to his benefactor. " This has been a pretty 
good lesson to me. I've taken it to heart, 
and, please God, I shall keep it there." 

Yes, I think you will," promptly replied 
Mr. Stafford, " and I shall trust you. And 
now, my man, you have only to get strong 
as quickly as you can. As to you, little one," 
he added, touching Bessy's hair, "you will 
like to see the nice garden again, will you 
not?" 

Bessy answered not a word. Her heart 
was full. 

" You can come and sit in it sometimes. 



you know, and watch your fiither at work, 
tending the flowers." 

It seemed almost too good to be real. 
Bessy glanced up at Mr. Stafford through the 
tears of gratitude that glistened on her eye- 
lashes. Something in her face caused him to 
look at it more attentively, and to hold her 
before him while he did so. 

*' You are needing it, I see — the pure 
country air," he observed to her, breaking 
the silence. " Roger Wells, the sooner you 
can come, the better for yoxa little one. She 
looks but sickly." 

*' It's the worry about me that's been tell- 
ing upon her, sir," replied Wells. "She's 
such a sensitive little thing — not a bit like 
other children. And this bad, stifling place 
is very bad for her, Mr. Whatley says. We 
shall only be too glad to get out of it ; and I 
thank you, sir, a thousand times." 

But poor Bessy Wells was not destined to 
go again to see that beautiful garden. God 
was taking her to a better garden instead, 
his own true garden of heaven. 

While all me people had been busy with 
Roger Wells, occupied with the grave doubt 
of whether he would recover or die, nobody 
hftd takra leisure to notice Bessy. The first 
to be struck with her wan face, as just stated, 
was Mr. Stafford. He thought it unusually 
pale and sickly even for hers, which was 
always so, more or less. And that same even- 
ing, three or four hours after Mr. Stafford's 
departure, Bessy fainted away. Martha Jones, 
chancing to go in to see whether anything 
was wanted by Wells, found Bessy lying partly 
on her little bed, partly on the floor. 

" My goodness me ! why the child's got 
no life in her ! " exclaimed Martha Jones. 

It aroused Wells, who had dozed off to 
sleep in his chair — a queer kind of raining 
chair that the doctor had sent in for him, and 
which he was obliged to partly lie on. Martha 
Jones shook Bessy and sprinkled water in her 
face. She opened her eyes presently. 

" What in the world made you go and do 
it, child ? " demanded Martha Jones. 

" Do what ? " was the faint answer. 

" Why drop off like that with no sense in 
you, and lie down here as if you were 
dead ? " 

" I don't know," said Bessy, trying to recall 
how it was. " I felt giddy at seeing the room 
go round; so I just laid my head upon the 
mattress for a minute. I don't remember 
after that/ 

From that hour Bessy drooped. . DrpQP^ 
very rapidly. Mr. Whatl^itjhe<^d«k:Wl!i9»e^ 



BESSY WELLS. 



at her and drew in his lips. He had been in 
the habit of seeing Bessy when he came to 
her &ther ; and perhaps he might have been 
quicker to note her sickly face and detect 
what was amiss, but that he was accustomed 
to see few faces but sickly ones in Peter's 
Court. 

Another victim to this pestiferous air," he 
muttered to himself. But he knew that even 
under more favourable auspices Bessy's life 
bad not been one likely to be mudi pro- 
longed. 

And so poor Bessy Wells was to die. 
Whether the fear and anxiety for her father 
had struck to her sadly weak frame, or the 
extra confinement to the close, sick-chamber; 
or whether it was not either of these causes, 
but that the allotted time had come unaided, 
certain it was that she was passing away very 
quickly. It was she who was to d^e ; not her 
father. 

The doctor did what he could for her. Mr. 
Stafford, when he found how it was, felt truly 
sorry for the child. He brought her up some 
delicious fruit and some sweet*smelling flowers 
from his gardens ; the flowers, he told her, 
his daughter Mina ' had sent Bessy was 
grateful for all, and veiy quiet and resigned. 
She had an intuitive perception of the truth 
as to herself and yet was happy. Jenny the 
Bible-womui came to sit with her every day, 
and Martha Jones was as good to her as a 
mother. 

Before two weeks had gone by, she was so 
weak as not to be atfle to do anything for 
herseUl Martha Jones dressed her of a day ; 
and she would sit leaning against the wall for 
support, looking up at the little bit of blue 
sky that could be seen from the window. 
Peter's Court did not know anything about 
such a luxury as an easy-chair : the curious 
thing sent in for her father looked rather a 
difficult one. Roger Wells, who had grown 
strangely quietand thoughtful as he progressed 
towards recovery, would sit by for the most 
part in silence, only exchanging a word with 
her now and then. The Holy Spirit was at 
work in his heart. He saw all the folly o£ 
his late wasted life, saw that it could never 
be redeemed. This poor child whom he had 
so neglected, whom he had reduced to the 
sad strait of such a dwelling-place as Peter's 
Court, whom he had rendered motherless (Sot 
it was assuredly his conduct, and the priva- 
tions that conduct entailed, that had prema- 
turely cut oS his wife), was now being removed 
from his sight in this world for ever. 

" Don't ciy for me, father," Bessy said one 
day, when she actually saw him brush away 



some tears with the back of his wasted hand. 
" I shall see mother^ you know ; and by-and- 
by you will come to us. It will be better 
there than here. There's no quarrelling up 
in heaven." 

Quarrelling of some kind or another, be- 
tween men, or women, or both, was generally 
goin^ on in Peter's Court within Bessy's 
hearing ; in the adjacent rooms, or on Uie 
staircase, or belbw outside. At this moment 
two wometi were shrieking furiously at one 
another, and threatening blows in fierce lan- 
guage. 

" Could ye eat a spoonful of that milk 
jelly ? " asked Wells. It was some that Jenny 
had brought in. 

" No, father, I can't eat it," panted Bessy. 
Her breath was painfully short now. 

" You'll try it later, maybe," said Wells. 

" When you are at work in that garden of 
Mr. Staffoid's, fiither, it will put you in mind 
of us that have gone up to that other beauti- 
ful one," she went on. " Oh, it was such a 
lovely place ! — I mean the one I saw in my 
dream. Mr. Stafford's was nothing to it," 

" Ay," said Wells shorUy. 

" I am always thinking of that garden of 
heaven, father, for it won't go out of my 
mind, and of Jesus who stood there with his 
arms stretched out. It soothes my pain. 
The other evening, when I had to lie down 
just before dusk, and nearly fell asleep, I for- 
got myself and tiiought I was one of the poor 
people He was beckoning to, and I put up my 
hands and sud, * Lord Jesus, take me 1' I 
seemed to see his face as plain as plain, and 
his kindly smile. Father, it will be very 
grand and good up there." 

Wells caught up his breath with a sobbing 
sigh. " Please God, I shall go up some 
time," he thought. " What would I give to 
have worked a bit for God ! All my long 
life to have done nothing for Him I — to have 
spent it in sin and carelessness ! — never to 
have thought of the world to come I" 

Bessy ^ivered slightly. The quarrelling 
women had come to blows. , 

"Don't you listen to that, Bessy," said 
Wells, seeing the shudder. *' Don't you 
think about 'em." 

" It doesn't hurt me as much as it did," 
replied Bessy, in her slow accents and faint 
voice. "Since I saw Jesus standing there to 
beckon to them, I think to myseH that per- 
haps they will see Him some time, and after 
that they'll not fight any more." 

Wells took a stick, by the help of which he 
could now walk tolerably, and werifr-down- 
stairs. Mr. Whatley ord^f^j^^Ski^i^vEf^^^^' 



150 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



of the room when he could, though it was 
only to exchange it for the not much better 
outer air. He hobbled on to Dart Street, 
and sat down on the door-step that used to 
be too high (ot Bessy. There he was witness 
to another fight — a short, sharp one — between 
men this time. 

The weather was lowering this evening, 
the atmosphere close and murky, seeming to 
promise thunder. Summer had been much 
prolonged : though September now, it was 
nearly as hot as it had been in July. Men 
and women sat or stood about in little throngs, 
dirty, sullen, ragged, with uncombed hair 
and rancorous speech. There was not a 
bright look among them, there was not a 
hope. The children shrieked, and tumbled, 
and leaped, and pushed, and contended, and 
sitwre: and neither, man nor woman reproved 
them. To what bourne were they travelling, 
this mass of unfortunate, unreflecting people ? 
Did they ever give so much as a fhou^ht to 
it, or ask of their soul the question? 

Never. 

Two ill-looking men had been calling fiercely 
to each other across the narrow street The 
one accused the other of cheating him out of 
a halipenny at some game they had been en- 
gaged in. The language thfey used was 
enough to make a good man shudder. From 
abuse they passed to threats, and from threats 
to blows. 

With angry mien and inflamed faces, they 
mutually advanced, throwing off their ragged 
coats as they met in the close hot road, 
and began to fight. The spectators came 
rushing up with ready jeers and words to 
urge the contest on, and to take sides in 
it, women as eagerly as men. But the fight, 
though fierce, was short, and the combatants 
left ofif with swollen eyes and blood running 
down their faces. 

Wells, extremely weak and low yet from 
the effect of his illness, leaned his aching 
head upon his hand and thought of the con- 
trast. The contrast, which these scenes of 
wickedness and turmoil presented, to that 
place of blessedness and peace which Bessy 
was fond of picturing. A short while ago, he 
would have made one amid these reckless, 
godless men : now the ominous question 
was suggesting itself even to him — whither 
were they going, what was to be the end of 
their course ? 

*' Perhaps I could pluck up courage to say 
a word of warning to them before I leave for 
good?" debated Wells doubtfiiUy with him- 
self. "Though I know it would bring no- 
thing but scoffs back again." 



CHAPTER IX. — ^SAFE IN THE BEAUTIFUL 
GARDEK. 

Only a day or two, and Bessy was sinking 
to her Restf entering into it very calmly 
and trustingly. When Martha Jones came 
in that morning and began to dress her, 
Bessy's arms dropped by her side. Her 
poor little head, unable to support itself, fell 
back on the boater. 

" Please let me be, Mrs. Jones," she said 
in a faint, pleading voice. " Don't dress n\e 
to-day." 

And Martha Jones saw how it was — that 
she would never again be dressed in thia 
world, except for the grave. 

" No, deary," she said, I'll not disturb ye 
to-day, if ye'd rather be let be. Ill just put 
ye comfortable a bit down there." 

So she gendy washed Bessy's face and 
hands, and smoothed back her soft brown 
hair : and then let her lie back- at rest. 
Bessy's face had now fallen away to be very 
small ; but it was always a pleasant face to 
look upon. Pleasant in its freshness and 
frankness, with the thoughtful, earnest look 
of love and gratitude shining forth fi-ora its 
eyes. 

They put a little water between her lips 
that day at times, but it was all she could 
take. She thanked them with a smile only ; 
speaking seemed beyond her now. Roger 
Wells, Imowing how very near the end must 
be, felt eztronely restiess; now standing 
to look down upon Ker, and now stealing out 
of the room as if he could not bear the sight. 
Jenny the Bible-woman came in two or three 
times; and Martha Jones did not quit the 
room at all. 

Late in tlie afternoon, it chanced that Mr. 
Stafford found his way to Peter's Court to 
inquire after her. Martha Jones confronted 
him as he lifted the latch of the door. So 
very many of the neighbours were wanting 
to come in to express their sympathy and 
take a last look at the dying child, tliat 
Martiia ccmsidered it her duty to keep most 
of them out. 

" How is the little girl to-day?" asked Mr. 
Stafford. 

" You've just come in time to see her, sir," 
was the whispered answer, as the woman 
threw mde the door. " She can't last long 
now." 

His entrance woke Bessy out of a doze, or 
semi-stupor. She lifted her eyes to his with 
a smile, and tried to put u]> her hand. 

"Why, Bessy!" he exclaimed, ^with con- 
cern, as he laid by f^iift^PE^^ofd^^g 



BESSY WEILS. 



15* 



smelling carnations— the lost time he had 
tiroaght roses. " Are you not so well ?" 

"I'm going to mother, sir," she answered. 
Tm going into that other beautiful garden. 
Oh, sir — ^but do please foigive me for saying 
it — it is better than yours." 

'* Ay, my httle girl, it is better than mine," 
he said, some feeling or emotion bringing the 
tears to his eyes. "The flowers in my garden 
will fade and die; of many of those that were 
in bloom when you were there not a trace is 
left; but those other flowers will live for ever, 
and be bright to eternal ages." 

" And there'll be no hot, long roads to walk 
upon, and no white dust or burning sun," 
added Bessy, as if her thoughts were back in 
that past day, while her eyes were fixed on 
the small comer of blue sky, seen through 
the open window. 

*' No, no," he answered. 

" I shall not want my crutch any more. 
Father can break it up for firewood," 

*' You'll never want it again, Bessy. There 
will be no wearing pain, or toil, or sickness 
there j nothing but glad peace and rest." 

Bessy looked away from the sky and turned 
her eyes to him. " I saw in my dream that 
Jesus Christ stood to beckon them," she 
said, ** those crowds and crowds of people. 
Oh, sir, if they would but all turn to Him — 
all, all. Do you think they will ?" 

" Well, we must hope so, my little girl." 

'* All these poor people in. Peter's Court ? 
If any of them do not — and so find them- 
selves shut out of heaven !" she exclaimed, 
with an anxiety that was making her restless 
both in mind and body. " Oh, what will 
they do — what will they do ? And Jesus is 
waiting there ! - He wa^ts thera all to look to 
Him J just to look. Once they look, they 
can't help seeing how kind He is, and that 
He is standing always to invite them. If 
they would but think of it I — if they did but 
know! O, sir, if you could but please to 
tell them I" 

The parable of the rich man and Lazarus 
came forcibly into Mr. Stafford's mind with 
the words, " TTiey have Moses and the pro- 
phets; let them hear them." Even the 
child, Bessy Wells, saw clearly, in her dying 
hour, hon^ -few there are who remember, 
during their busy- lifetime, to strive on to 
gain eternity. " Strait is the gate and nar- 
row is the way that leadeth unto life, and fqw 
there be that find it." And yet, as Bessy 
saw in her dream, the Saviour is waiting, 
watting always, to help them. 

" It's a hard pull for me, sir," said Wells 
raeddy, meeting Mr. Stafford on the stairs 



as he was leaving. " I shan't have her with 
me when I come down to that fine garden of 
yours that she's so fond of talking of - 

" No, you will not, my friend," replied Mr. 
Stafford. "But it is a matter for rejoicing, 
not regret. She is going to a better garden 
than mine — she has just beeh saying so— that 
of our Lord and Master." 

As the dusk came on, Bessy grew verj- 
restless. Jenny, the Bible-woman, knew, in 
her experience, what the restlessness preceded. 
Bessy's mind seemed slightly to wander : she 
spoke a few sentences now and then in a 
weak voice. Martha Jones found her authority 
set at naught by the people round about; 
they would come in to see the last of Bessy ; 
but Jenny begged them to let the dying child 
get as much air as she could, and under that 
consideration they were content to be shut 
out. 

Though restless in frame, Bessy's mind 
seemed full of the sweetest peace. Wells sat 
on a chair listening to her. 

" The river's beautiful ! " she suddenly 
whispered, after a long pause of silence, 
during which she had lain still, and her eyes 
were wide open now, and she seemed to look 
at her father. " It shines like silver. It's the 
same I saw in my dream. What a many 
golden boats 1 they are taking the people 
over — all those who have turned to Jesus. 
Oh vhat a many I the boats start every 
moment, carrying them to the other side. 
Beyond, there's a bright soft light, and Jesus 
is standing there. Why, that must be the 
beautiful garden ! — oh, it is, it is. Father, 
that's the garden ! It is so glorious !— and 
you can't see to the end. And there are the 
trees; and the healing leaves; and the foun- 
tain of the water of life. Jesus is waiting to 
give them tiie water. IVun'i you read it ? " 
— turning her face with an eager look upon it 
to the Bible-woman. Mother used to read 
it to me." 

Jenny knew the part she meant, and thought 
she really wanted to hear the veraes. So she 
opened the Bibl^ one she almys carried with 
her on her visits, at the twenty-first chapter of 
the Revelation of St. John. 

"And I saw a new heaven and a new 
earth ; for the first heaven and the first eartli 
were- passed away; and there was no more 
sea. And I, John, saw the holy city, new 
Jerusalem, coming down from God out of 
heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her 
husband. And I heard a great voice out of 
heaven, saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God 
is with men, and Hewill dwell with dienvand i 
they shall be his people, afidb^^^M^eif^^* 



'52 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



be with them, and be their God. And God 
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; and 
there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, 
nor crying, neither shall there be any more 
pain : for the former things are passed away. 
And He that sat upon the throne said, Behold, 
I make all thiftgs new. And He said unto 
me, Write : for these words are true and faith- 
ful. And He said unto me, It is done. I am 
Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the- 
end. I will give unto him that is athirst of 
the fountain of the water of life freely. He \ 
that overcometh shall inherit all things ; and ; 



I will be his God, and he shall be my 
son." 

" Father, Jesus is going to give to me of 
that water of life," Bessy said, as the voice of 
the Bible-woman ceased ; and during the 
short interval, now passing, she seemed quite 
collected. *' He will give it to you when you 
come." 

" You must ask Him to give it me, 
Bessy," said the subdued man. '* There are 
times when I don't dare to ask Hint any- 
thing." 

" He sees that, and He will help you to 




ask," she said, gently shaking her head — just 
as though she were the learned teacher and 
her father the child to be taught. *' I haven't 
hved here long, have I, father; and it has 
been only a poor life for me, what with my 
lameness and pain, and this stifling place, 
Peter's Court, and the people that have 
frightened me, and our troubles, and mother's 
death ; but it has not mattered a bit now it's 
all over, and it seems to have been such a 
little while." 

"Ay," put in Wells. 

"And, father, do you know what I've 



thought lately since I lay here ? If I had been 
like that young lady in the white frock and 
blue ribbons, and lived there in Mr. Stafford's 
beautiful garden as she does, I might not 
have thought so much of the garden I'm 
going to — that glorious garden of heaven I 
saw in my dream. When we are very poor 
and sick and unhappy here, God sees it all : 
Se knows that we shall be only the happier 
for it in heaven.'* 

" I wish I had thought a bit more of these 
things all along, Bessy, and tried to do i 
better ■■ sighed Wells. D,g,„zed by ^UuJ^ 



Digitized by 



Googl 



THE PROMISE OF THE PRESENCE. 



15; 



** But yoa will think now, bther. You'll 
not forget again." 

" No never — as I hope," he answered. 

" You'll be in Mr. Stafiford's garden, and that 
will help you to remember, father. And there's 
the river, too, you know, to look at ; though it's 
not like the one that has the golden boats on 
it I — it — yes, it's there, flowing along," she 
dreamily added, her mind falling away again 
into wandering. " Listen I Is that music? 
It comes from the other side. And oh, I see 
mother 1 She is in white ; she is smiling at 



me. Father, &ther, you'll please make hast( 
to come there. It is better than th^." 

Those were the last distinct words that the] 
caught from Bessy Wells. When the nighl 
air in Peter's Court was at the coolest, anc 
the stars began to pale in the blue sky tc 
give place to dawn, she passed away to the 
heavenly garden she had loved to dream of 
where diere would be neither sorrow nor cry- 
ing nor any more pain, and God himsell 
would wipe away the tears from her eyes for 
ever. 



THE PROMISE OF THE PRESENCE. 

THE AUTHOR OF "Chronicles of the ScHoNBaao-CorTA Family." 

" Lo, I am with yon alway (all the dayi), even nnto the end of the world." 



'T'HE elder days, the morning days, 

With thousand promises have rung ; 
They sparkled o'er the dewy ways 
When Earth, and Time, and Man were 
young. 

To us the promise is but one. 

One light-pomt gathers all the rays ; 

To us He speaketh through the Son, 
** Lot Jam with you ail the days** 

Health, peace, and ample heritage. 
Homes full of life, and life of bliss, 

Long life with silver crowns of age — 
To us is promised none of this. 

Yet we are richer far than they ; 

Their thousand were but stars at night. 
But " / am wiih you every day J* 

Is Day itself, is life and light. 

No promise what the days shall bring, 
Some must be dark with storm and haze, 

To each its measured load will cling; 
But " / am with you all the days" 

No promise what the days shall be ; 

They led Thee through no easy ways, 
And our true path is following Thee ; 

But " Thou art with us all the days." 

Not "as thy day thy strength shall be," 
Still deeper hopes to us belong ; 

We may be blind, but Thou canst see, 
We may be weak, but Thou art strong ! 



To-day, to-morrow, on and on ; 

No day shall come and not bring Thee ; 
No night shall come and find Thee gone, — 

Thou Who hast taught in Galilee ;— 

Thou Who hast healed in Galilee, 
And prayed upon the lone hillside ; 

Thou Who hast known Gethsemnne ; 
And on the Cross for us hast died ; 

Not only the life's History; 

Thou Who hast lived it, even Thou ! 
Not only the great Memory ; 

The living Presence, here and now ! 

Not only rules, though of Thy choice. 

Or principles, howe'er Divine ; 
The Master Hand, the living Voice ; 

Thyself: not only what is Thine. 

With us, our Light, from mom to night. 
With us, our Strength, from youth to age ; 

Oh, Just and True ! Oh, Love and Might I 
Our Sovereign and our Heritage. 

No cistern, emptied, late or soon ; — 

The fulness of the living Source I 
No lighted lamp, no mirnu: moon ; — 

The Sun, the Fount of life and force I 

With us at morning to inspire 

Fresh work, with ever-freshened zest'j 
At noon-tide, that we may not tire ; 

At evening, to restore and restr* ^ ^ ^ I ^ 

Digitized by VjQO^Lg 



a 34 



.SUNDAY KAGAZINE. 



With us our Master, to command, 

Making it well worth while to live, 
With daily tasks fresh from Thy hand ; — 
With us our Saviour, to forgive I 

Yes, all the days, and all the day, 
To guide, restrain, correct, inspire ; 

Moulding our wills, Thy willing clay, 
Kindling our hearts, Thy kindred fire ! 

Days of fulfihnent; raising these 
To types and seeds of higher things ; 

Dark days of loss ; Thy touch but frees 
The shattered seed to spread its wings. 

The day when Thou Who hast the key 
Openest to our beloved Thy door; — 



They enter to Thy joy with Thee ; 
And we are lef^ bereft and poor, 

Outside ; yet still Thou hast the keys I 
A living touch our spint stays ; 

Hiou sufferest not the heart to freeze ; 
For ** T/tau art with us all the days" 

The day which like the rest begins, 
With " Fear net; I am still with thee^ 

And ends, beyond the clouds and sins, 
With " Evermore His Face they see.'' 

With us through each bewildering maze, 
Each step of the untrodden way; 

With us all day, and all the days, 
Till days and nights dawn to Thy Day ! 



THE SAMARITANS. 

BV THE LATE JAMES FINN, FOBUKBLY HEX MAJESTY'S CONSUt FOR JERUSALEM 

AND Palestine. 



THERE is before me at this moment, 
framed and glazed, a bold print from 
the painting of Carl Haag, representing the 
Priest of the Samaritans in the act of read- 
ing the Manuscript KoU of the Pentateuch 
to the congregation in the Synagogue — a 
picture of remarkable exactness, except in 
the personal likeness of the priest himself: 
dignified it really is, but the face is not the 
face of 'Amrin ben Shalmah. 

The picture is, however, to me, one of 
peculiar interest, bringing up, as it does, 
reminiscences of familiar persons and events. 
With the mind's eye, I see the poverty of the 
walls and the special physiognomy of the 
small congregation beyond what the picture 
gives of the cheap mat upon the floor, and 
the rudely constructed, unpainted deal chair, 
placed so as to serve as a reading-desk, but 
over which hangs a strip of silk embroidery. 
There is also the large veil, concealing the 
masbah, or sacred recess in which the " per- 
petual lamp" is burning, and where the rolls 
of the sacred law are kept ; that veil is em- 
broidered with texts from the law, in their 
peculiar alphabet, and was the handiwork of 
'Amran's great-grandmother; lastly, the gilded 
ornamentation above the embossed silver-gilt 
case, in which the exhibited manuscript is 
contained. 



But my recollections of the Samaritan 
people are not limited to festal celebrations 
as here represented. I have dwelt in theh- 
dwellings, taken knowledge of their iamily 
sorrows and their general humiliation^ and, 
thanks to our Government at home some 
years ago, been able to procure for them 
relief from the pressure of local tyranny. 

Just now, before taking up the pen, I have 
spent some time in the perusal of old letters 
received from Samaritans, with date from 
1852 to 1863, upon a diversity of topics, not, 
however, of extensive range, and they seem 
to represent old friends speaking, teifing out 
their wishes or necessities. In each letter 
there start up scenes and characters sur- 
rounding the letter-writer himself, and even 
the dates and seal signatures are si^estive 
of further matters stilL* 

Such being the nature of my relations to 
the Samaritan community, it would be beside 
my object to follow in the train of our 
Kennicott, or De Sacy of Paris, JuynboU of 
Amsterdam, or Gesenius of Germany, or any 
others, for investigation of their literature or 
theology; mine is a task of more humble aim 
than theirs ; all the relation I can hold to 



* Tho seal of 'Amrdn contains a motto aUutUns to bi* 
fiitber'a nuno u well u hU own, " SaUm 'ala ch'U^^oijLn." 



Digitized by 



THE SAMJUUTANS. 



De Sacy lies in the circumstance of having 
seen and conversed with old Salimah the 
priest (Shalmah, as he was called among 
his people), who had been his correspondent, 
and who, at the time of my intmriews with 
him, was too feeble &om to officiate in 
the public service beyond pibnonndng (he 
Aaronic benediction ; the other functions 
were delegated to his eldest son, 'Amr&n. 
•Arardn became my most frequent corre- 
spondent in afiairs of the community. 

It is here taken for granted that the reader 
knows already there are a few families living 
together on the skirts of Mount Gerizim, at 
Nablus, under the name of the sect* (or com- 
munity) of Samaritans; the small relic of a 
much larger people of ancient date — a people 
who, in the Apocryphal books, in Josephus, 
and in the New Testament, are represented 
as living in a state of perpetual hostili^ to the 
Jews of Judsea and Galilee, between wmch two 
provinces they had and have their station 
also that this people have the law of Mcses, 
and live according to its precepts as near as 
circumstances permit, but reject all other 
books of the Bible ; that they keep up a 
line of priesthood from ancient times, de- 
rived, as they claim, from Aaron, and have 
their sacred books in the Hebrew language, 
though written in an alphabetic character 
different from that of the Jews, closely resem- 
bling that of the Phoenicians of old, one 
copy of which is affirmed to be In the iden- 
tical handwriting of Abishua, grandson of 
Aaron; that they never intermarry with other 
nations or religions ; that they believe them- 
selves to be the true unmixed children of 
Israel, whatever the Jews may be ; and that 
the enmity between them and the latter re- 
mains in force to our times. 

In all these respects they cannot but excite 
peculiar interest among the learned of every 
degree in Europe, whether Jew or Christian, 
with a desire to know more about them. 

For many ages they and their books were 
lost to observation; but, from the commence- 
ment of the seventeenth century, copies of 
their Pentateuch have been in Christian pos- 
session and subjected to our critidsm, and 
the last forty years have brought numerous 
travellers into their country and city; yet 
there remains much room for inquiry regard- 
ing the Samaritans. 

Surely so strange a people, with so remark- 
able a history, must form an important link 
in the chain of evidence for the verity of the 



i The word MCt li employed in diiparaeing scnu ; it is 
tho corm^onding word for Tayijtk in common Arabic iisc< 



law received on Mount Sinai, and recorded 
by Moses the lawgiver. It is difficult to 
conceive the effect likely to be produced on 
so primitive and conservative a community 
by telling them that profound thinkers and 
great scholars in Europe have now dis- 
covered that the Pentateuch was not written 
by Moses, but is a compilation of the Jews 
made near the end of their national history ; 
what would they think of our "free handling" 
and "higher criticism?" — they, dissevered 
as they are from both Jewish and Gentile 
erudition, and with just sufficient copyist 
variation in their Pentateuch from ours to 
show tliat they were not taken from modem 
or even what we should term ancient editions. 

But what is the history of this community? 
According to the Jews th^ are mere de- 
scendants of the remote heathen colonists 
placed in the country by the Assyrian con- 
querors, to fill up the place of the ten tribes 
of Israel deported into Assyria, but who, 
after undergoing much trouble and suffering, 
were instructed in the religion of the old 
Israelitish owners of the land by a priest sent 
back for the purpose, and he taught them 
from his settlement at Bethel. These inci- 
dents are recorded in 2 Kings xvii. ; but 
whether they are sufficient to account for all 
the circumstances that we know of is sriU a 
question at issue. 

A great refonnation of religion must have 
taken place among them, not only by means 
of the priest at Bethel, but dso when Josiah, 
the-king of l3ie neighbouring realm of Judah, 
invaded the country, and forcibly destroyed 
all the public remnants of idolatry at Bethel 
and in the cities of Samaria. Thenceforward 
we hear no more of the golden calves of 
Jeroboam, or of Succoth-benoth, or Nergal, 
or Ashima, or the rest of the trans-Euphratic 
idols, and indeed of no animosity between 
them and the kingdoih of Judah during the 
hundred and thirty years preceding the cap- 
tivity of the latter by the Chaldeans. On 
the rel^um of these under the Persians, the 
Samaritans even offered to Jielp in rebuilding 
the temple at Jerusalem : to this, however, 
they had no right according to the imperial 
edict ; besides that, they had acknowledged 
themselves to be colonists brought in by the 
Assyrians (Ezra iv. z). No doubt the pro- 
posal was made in unfriendly craftiness, for 
we know that political rivalry led them to 
put obstacles in the way of rebuilding the 
city; but still there must have existed an 
outward conformity in religion. Since that 
time we find only dissension and-Jiatred be^ 
tween the Jews and Q Og IC 



I 



156 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



The Hellenist Jews, prior to the Christian 
era, speak of the latter as " that foolish people 
that dwell in Sichetn" (Ecclus. 1. 26), and 
Josephus calls them in a body without dis- 
tinction, " apostates from the Jewish nation" 
(Ant., xi. 8, 6) when they were dealing with 
the conqueror Alexander. 

On the other hand, the Samaritans take 
up high ground, and assert themselves to be 
the true la-aelites of the ten tribes, under 
the presidency (Hegemony is the modern 
political term) of Ephnum, from whom the 
two tribes seceded, and set up a rival king- 
dom and temple under David and Solomon, 
and who, in the course of time, have written 
their own party history to favour their 
schismatical conduct. They affirm that they 
have never been entirely dispossessed of the 
mountains of Ephraim, where they have held 
fast to the Mount Gerizim, which was sanc- 
tified by so many events of old — the moun- 
tain whereon Noah's ark rested ; where Abra- 
ham led Isaac his son for a sacrifice ; and 
which was Jacob's Bethel, with the vision of 
angels ; where also the divine law was writ- 
ten on great stones (which are still buried 
there), and rehea»ed in the audience of all 
the nation ; where the blessings, also, that 
are pronounced for obedience were recited by 
Joshua — that being the place which the Lord 
did choose to set his name there from among 
all the twelve tribes of his peculiar people — 
from all which premisses it must needs follow 
that all sacrifices or divine worship made 
elsewhere have been schismatical, and the 
priestly succesaon invalid ever since the holy 
ark was removed out of the ten tribes from 
Shiloh at the death of £U. 

It is not necessary here to reply to the 
arguments given above, however tempting; 
but very much of the merits of points m dis- 
pute depends upon what may have been the 
amount of preponderance in the composition 
of the Samaritan nation of old, whether the 
Cuthaean or the Ephraimitic element prevailed, 
yet, as Christians, we can have no hesitation 
iu saying that they were two thousand years 
ago a mixed people ; seeing that, without 
argumentation, we have our infallible Teacher 
declaring of the Samaritan leper that was 
healed (Luke xviL 18), that he was iXKoytv^, 
a word si^ifying "of alien race." But 
one thing is certain and noteworthy, that 
both Jews and Samaritans are new free from 
the practice idolatrous worship, both being 
of one mind in the exclamation, " Hear, O 
Israel, the Lord our God is One Lord." 
Still they will be unable really to coalesce 
until both have learned the true doctrine 



contained in the fourth chapter of John's 
Gospel, the doctrine which breaks down all 
walls of partition between nations under the 
spiritual Fatherhood of the God of all. 
Some unlearned Samaritans have been known 
to stigmatize the Jews as Cuthaeans; and one 
of their number replied to a question of 
mine as to whom he supposed die modern 
Jews to be, that he thought they were an 
offshoot from among them at some unknown 
ancient period. And, on the other side, I 
remember a conversatioa with some Jews on 
the beach of the Lake of Tiberias, when 
Rabbi Jacob Abulafia, one of the most 
learned of that place, told us that he had 
often spoken with the Samaritans in Nablus, 
and had taken pains to read their books. He 
gave some ridiculous mimicry of their pro- 
nunciation of Hebrew in reading the law, 
and added that the Secretary 'Abd es SamSri, 
having spoken irreverently of Solomon's 
Temple, and of King David having delibe- 
rately planned the schism of his two tribes 
beforehand by writing poems to make people 
believe ttuit the Lead had diosen Zion for 
his dwelling-place, and had a delight in her, 
" Then," said R. Jacob, " I could bear it no 
longer, but, starting on my feet, I cried out, 
' If you dare to speak another word against 
King David and Splomon and the Psalms,. 
I will pull that beard out of your face, de- 
pend upon it'" 

Being myself one day a guest in a room 
full of Samaritans, all seated on the divans, 
and 'AmrSn presiding, I asked, "Are you 
on friendly terms with the few Jews living 
here in Nablus ?" and was answered, " Yes, 
pretty fairly whereupon, a man near the I 
door stood boIt-uprig^t, and said, " No ; we I 
are only friends from the teeth outwards — we ' 
hate them, and they hate us." And it is to ! 
be observed that, whenever brought to Jem- j 
salem for either purposes of trade or (or 
local business with the government, the 
Samaritans lodge with the Karaite Jews ; no 
others would receive them : but these being 
a small and bated sect, can so far sympa- 
thize with the Samaritans as to give them 
hospitality. 

As^ Christian, and not unacquainted with 
the history and relevancy of sudi controversy,, 
I felt of course a lively interest in meeting 
with such a people, and it was truly startling *| 
at first to find oneself leaping over a gulf of 
many centuries, and to be on speaking terms 
with both parties at issue on the very mat- 
ters which they passionately argued two thou- 
sand years ago ; as, for instance, the supre- 
macy of Jerusalem or Gemm^^^ J , 



THE SAMARITANS. 



they both staked their lives upon in presence 
of Ptolemy Soter in Alexandria (Josephus, 
Ant., xiii. 3, 4) ; and who, imder such cir- 
cumstances, could be unmindful of the con- 
versation of the Divine Saviour with the 
Samaritan woman at the well-^ide of the 
patriarch Jacob under the very shadow of 
Geriam ? " The hour cometh when ye shall 
oeitherin this mountaio, nor yet at Jerusalem, 
worship the Father. God is a Spirit, and 
they that w<nship'Him must worship Him 
in spirit and in truth." 

The Samaritan census is not a burdensome 
one to collect. They count themselves at 
one hundred and fifty souls, comprised in 
I but a few households, and for many years the 
j number has remained stationary. By the 
j iatest account, however, we learn that they 
had an increase of one. It would be un- 
natural in them not to lament their decline, 
or not desire an increase ; in fact they do so, 
notwithstanding an ar^ment produced to me 
by 'Amr^ upon my mildly su^sting that the 
blessing promised to Abraham was an exten- 
sion of number, and the evident &ct that the 
Jews are still a numerous people. 'Amr^n 
pointed out Deut. xxxiii. 4, " The congrega- 
tion of Jacob," where the word *' congrega- 
tion " can mean nothing but a single com- 
munity, few in number, who can assemble in 
one place. " And this," he added, '* we are 
beyond all doubt." He did not see that this 
argument would not apply to them when they 
were in a state of ^sperity, and forming 
colonies in various places as formerly. Under 
the Ptolemies, when the Jews were many and 
affluent in £^ypt, the Samaritans were there 
too ; and I myself, when in Gaza, was told 
that the house of the Samaritan synagogue is 
still standing, for there was a congregation of 
them there in the last generation. Besides, 
what then becomes of their boast sometimes 
made, that there are large numbers of thera 
still in India, in London, and in Paris, as 
they have erroneously imagined from the fact 
of De Sacy and Walton reading their books 
and inquiring about their welfare ? 

Their paucity of numbers necessarily causes 
close intermarriage, and the effect of this is 
apparent in the family likeness which prevails 
atpong them. Th^ are a handsome people, 
generally taller than their neighbours, with a 
pale, refined complexion, and I hope I am 
mistaken in the idea that in proportion to 
their , whole number, there is an undue 
amount of feeble mental expression, in some 
instances verging on idiotcy, although at the 
same time they can show good specimens of 
personal appearance. 



From the circumstance of their fewnei 
and near relationships, questions of polygam 
or of divorce do not arise among them ; an 
a death among them, by diminishing the 
congregation, is a serious loss, while a birt 
is a corresponding gain to the whole bod] 
In 1853 the death of old Abu Shelaby wa 
greatly deplored, he being the best man c 
business in the Samaritan sect. 

They are a quiet, sober, and orderly com 
munity. Their habits of life are remarkabl 
cleanly, in person, in dress, and in th 
interior of their households. From havini 
lodged in a house of theirs in the very mids 
of the Samaritan quarter, I can bear witnes 
to their tidiness in these respects. Few in 
deed are the strangers who have had tha 
opportunity. And this character of cleanli 
ness is favoured by the copious supply o 
water in the town ana around it. I havt 
even heard them ridiculed on this accoun 
by Jews elsewhere as spending so mudi tim( 
in crying out MOtt " unclean, unclean," anc 
consequendy by over-employing themselves 
in washing and scrubbing. Here I may re 
mark that^ as far as I could see, every room- 
door had some Samaritan inscription on th( 
lintel-stone, usually some of the Ten Com 
mandments, or some text referring to these 
A much more rational way of obeying tht 
law of Mezuzoth (writing the words of the 
law on the door-posts) than the semblance oJ 
so doing practised by the Jews. 

On one of the occasions of my earliesi 
acquaintance with them, after attending theii 
divine service (and, by-the-bye, the govemoi 
of the town, Suliman Bck Tokan, would 
obtrude himself upon me, and behaved un- 
civilly to the people, among other things by 
reciting the " Fathhah," and lecturing us on 
the truth of the Mahommedan religion, a 
conduct which he never afterwards repeated), 
we repaired to the house of 'Abd es Samiri, 
one of the elders of the community, and 
holding an office as one of the clerks in the 
local seraglio, and no imagination could ex- 
ceed the propriety of that Samaritan Sabbath, 
The house so dean, and the principal men 
robed in white, with white turbans (on othei 
days of the week th^ wear them red), with 
the pale faces and white beards of the old 
men ; and the room was filled with their own 
people. 

The following nptes of the conversation 
taken down on returning from them may be 

interesting. 

They begged for direct protection of the 
English consulate, which, of course, could 
not be given, as they are Turkish subjects,^ 



'58 



SUNDAY MAGAZIWE. 



and nothing else. They then asked for the 
establishment of a scliool under a Samaritan 
teacher, and to have Pentateuchs printed for 
them in England in their Samaritan charac- 
ter, the school at least to be under consular 
protection like that of the Protestants of 
Nablus J but they soon understood that the 
English people could not be expected to 
find money for instruction in their anti- 
j christian religion. As for the Pentateuchs, 
I I promised to forward any petition that they 
I might write to that efiect. This, however, 
I tliejr never wrote. They showed me some 
j certificates recommending them to the notice 
j of travellers, given by Rev. Dr. Wilson, of 
Eombay, who visited them many years before, 
1 by Bishop Gobat, of Jerusalem, and by Dr. 
Kayat, the English Consul at Jaffa. 

At my request they, brought me the Penta- 
teuch volume of Walton's " Polyglott," which 
liad been sent them long ago. It was care- 
fully wrapped in a cotton envelope; the 
book had suffered some damage in the be- 
ginning and end leaves. The man who hkd 
been sent to fetch it, at first ncused himself, 
for the reason that he had with him no law- 
ful shoes, and it was explained that die shoes 
lawful for use in going to the synagogue are 
such as are made of skins of the lambs from 
the Passover sacrifice ; but surely this must 
only mean for use there while no service is 
going on, because during the time of worship 
they wear no shoes, none from the least to 
the greatest. 

As to the Passover sacrifice on Mount 
Gerizim, they said it had been perforce omit- 
ted for about fifty years before the coming of 
tlie Egyptian Government, and the celebra- 
tion was confined to their houses. The op- 
position arose, not so much from the Turkish 
Government, as from the bigotry of the in- 
habitants; and, after revival, it was again 
discontinued in the year of Dr. Wilson's 
visit. This year (1850) the ceremonial was 
renewed, at which they were very happy.* 

They declared that in the Ark of the 
Tabernacle, which was stolen away by the 
Jews, and placed in their temple at Jerusa- 
lena, there are numerous copies of the law, 
all written in the Samaritan character, and 
buried somewhere still in Zion. I inquired, 
"Where is- Zion?" Tliey said, "Do you 
not know it is^near the gate of Neby Dabod 
at Jerusalem?" And in the Pentateuch 
there is a passage which says, " There shall 



• Note.— The author haa here, wUi hin tuual modesty, 
omitted to mentioD thafact, that it wu through Ui exettioiu 
t'liat tho tiaraaritans bad been enaUed to mume ia taSety 
tbeir Pucbol Sacrifice on Oerisiia. 



come forth a law out of Zion " (which is the 
antique copy above referred to), " and it will 
reconcile both Jews and Samaritans " (namely, 
by demonstrating which is the true text when 
it is found). They could not exactly tell 
where that passage is written,* but "as to 
the Jews," they continued, " and their altered 
edition of holy law, by their own account 
they lost all the ancient a>pies, mitil Ezra, 
their scribe, accidentally foimd one; whereas 
we have never been without the law, and 
have still in our hands the roll in the very 
handwriting <^ Abishua, son of Fhineas, son 
of Eleazar, son of Aaron." 
" " We are the true Israel, a fact which has 
been attested as certain by a Firmin of Mo- 
hammed, sealed, according to his custom* 
by stamping ink from the fingers of his hand." 

This stupid appeal to the false prophet of 
the Arabs, utterly at variance with real time 
and place, was made during the presence of 
a certain person in the room, and a narrative 
of whose painful history was given when he left 
us. Hewasatalliaan,wearingagreenturban, 
but had a decidedly Samaritan physiognomy. 

Some dozen years before he was a diild in 
the stiteet of the town, when a Mohammediw 
taught him to repeat the few words of his 
creed — "There is no God but Allah, and 
Mohammed is the apostle of God." Two 
witnesses were present ; they three went 
straight to the Kadi, making deposition of 
what they had heard and claimed possession 
of the child as a Moslem believer, and there- 
fore no more belonging to infidel parents. 
On finding the turn that affairs were taking, 
the boy was horrified, and vowed he was no 
Moslem, but a Samaritan. At first they tried 
the effect of bribes suited to childish taste^ 
but in vain ; then threats, and waved a sword 
over his head, but still without effect, and be 
only gave way when they held his head to 
the mouth of a cannon. They then gave him 
the name of Asad instead of Naam^n, in due 
time also a wife, and he was beheved to be 
leading a most unhappy life as an exilefromhis 
religion and family. His two brothers were in 
the room with us, and they, with the oUier 
persons present, asked most piteously if there 
was no remedy, no means of recovering the 
involuntary apostate. 

"We are a suffering people," said my 
venerable host, " and although a wcretary to 
the government, I am always liable to insult, 
and any Moslem' child in the street is at 
liberty to beat me." 



' Tliii im UGordiBf to mf wtta j but I eaa hardly think 
that thejr munt tho tiepher Torofa ; it miut bo lomo o0ser 
book. 



THE SAMARITANS. 



15! 



Samaritan public services are only held on 
Sabbath days, and the few festivals prescribed 
in the law. The buildiil'g is usually termed by 
£uropeans a synagogue and p^haps no 
name is more appropriate as commonly 
understood, on account of the partial resem- 
blance of Samaritansto Jews. They both use 
the same Hebrew word for it, though pro- 
nounced somewhat difFerejitly, the Jews 
calling theirs the Beth ba Ke/iiseh, while the 
others call theirs the Kanshah* This word, 
as well as synagogue, signifies " the meeting 
house," as we may call our cliurches. 

It is approached by a dark lane with some 
risk of hurting one's head against huge old 
stones J and during the service, the chanting 
of the congregation can be heard at a con- 
siderable distance, so loud is it as to deserve 
the name of ranting. 

My first visit was made in 1S50, and on 
entering we had to take off our shoes. The 
congr^tion consisted of men only, rather 
above twenty in number, each wearing a 
white scarf over the shoulders, not as the 
Jews have the Tallith, often of rich materials, 
with blue border and fringes, but plain white 
calico, which they fold u^ after prayers, and 
leave in the synagogue. On their heads they 
had turbans "of white, or white with yellow 
stripes. 

The room was lower than the level of tlie 
street, and of exceedingly humble preten- 
sions, having no window, but a hole near the 
roof, through which strangers were looking 
down from outside; and the old priest, 
Salamah, stood leaning on a long staff. 
'AmrSn came out from within the veil of the 
recess {masboK) aller the public prayers were 
ended, and we conversed on subjects of 
interest to us. He caused one of the people 
to read a passage of the law, that I might 
judge of their pronunciation. He read some 
verses out of Leviticus, then tlie Ten Com- 
mandments, on which all the congregation 
stood up. I told them that we read them 
also in our churches, but the people kneel- 
ing. 'Amran said, "Standing is better." 
One of the party asked to see the peculiar 
old MS. of the law, and one was produced, 
very old, and much worn with use. I sug- 
gested in whisper to 'Amrin that that was 
not the true one, to whidi he replied, with a 
squeeze of the hand, " Another time," pro- 
bably not wishing (o make it too common a 
show for the strangers present. The roll 



* la booki or comsponiloBcc diOT c*ll U the b^t Allah 
(Hotiw of God). 



which we saw had a covering made of greer 
silk, with words woven in golden thread, ove; 
the embossed silver case, which also hac 
Samaritan writing upon it. This case was 
much battered, and that injury was, he said 
done by a certain Yusuf Fashil long ago. 
when he stole the jewels from it, after having 
bastinadoed the priest to make him surrendei 
them. Within the case the sacred roll had 
still another silk cover, but of crimson, with 
a gold inscription. 

Near the veil there was a bunch of green 
leaves and a citron, remaining, as they said, 
since the Feast of Tabernacles. 

Next day (Sunday) was a great celebration, 
but I neglected to ask what it was. How- 
ever, from what took place, it must have 
been the Day of Atonement, when alone in 
the year all the ancient rolls, induding the 
{>eatli£ir one, are produced to the <jongrega- 
tion. On entering we found 'Atnr^ holding 
up to view the venerable MS. in its orna- 
mental case above his head, and the people 
standing reverently with their hands folded 
before them. This was the Abishua Sepher 
Torah. 

During service, in plain chant, at the com- 
mencement of every fresh period or paragraph, 
the congregation all stroked their hands over 
the face and beard downwards. This was 
probably equivalent to our Atnmi at the end 
of short collects. It was a strange observance; 
but I have since, though very rarely, seen 
Moslems do the same in their devotions. 

After soine time the roll was shut up in 
its silver case and ,the silk covers, and all the 
elders, in rotattdn, came up •and kissed the 
outer cover, then toudted with their fingers 
the spot which had been kissed> and stroked 
those fingers over the beard. 

The venerable SalSraah stood all the time 
like the rest, but leaning upon his stafi'. 

Then the congregation sal upon the ground, 
and proceeded with chanting the prayers. 

The great roll of Abishua was then brouglit 
up for my inspection, and I remarked that it 
was evidently in a different handwriting from 
the copy shown the day before, but in a better 
state of preservation. The silken envelopes 
of this were green inside and crimson outside 
the silver case. 

'Abd es SamSri requested SalSjnah to have 
brought out also another copy of the law, 
said to be nine hundred years old. On the 
appearance of this the people rose likewise, 
and stroked their beards. It was kept in 
white cotton wrappers (more than one) within 
a box of cedar. 

Digitized by LjOOQIC 



6o 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



ROBIN REDBREAST. ' 



ENTLE Robin Redbreast, 
^-^ I'll sing a song to thee, 
Even a Robin's friendship 

Is ever dear to me. 
Always near my homestead, 

Bless thy fluttering wing^ ! 
Robin Redbreast cheers me, 

Robin Redbreast sings. 



In the virgin springtide 

Welcoming the flowers, 
O'er the earliest snowdrops, 

Where the violet cowers. 
When the sweet pale primrose 

Its pure odour brings, 
And tJie almond blossoms — 

Robin Redbreast singH. 




When the summer's glor>-. 

Flames in golden light 
Robing hill and mountain 

Beautifully bright, 
And the birds' hosanna 

All exultant rings, 
Robin swells the chorus, 

Robin Redbreast sings. 

Sweetly, too, in autumn. 

Mid the rustling sheaves, 
Jm the lonelv poplars. 

To the falling leaves. 
By the porch dismantled. 

Where food ivy clings, 
Kly old friend, dear Robin, 

Robin Redbreast sings. 



And in dreary winter. 

Midst the snow-wreaths near, 
Peering in my window, 

Robin comes to cheer. 
Always comes at Christmas, 

Christmas greeting brings, 
And " A Happy New Year " 

Robin Redbreast sings. 

Song-birds come and go. 

Thrushes sing their tune, 
Nightingales and cuckoos 

Fly away in June ; 
But my dear old Robin 

In true friendship clings, 
And the whole year through 

Robin Redbreast sings. 

DigiffENJAUIN GOljcH. 



e 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. i6i 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

HL — THE PREACHER OF REPENTANCE. 



TTHE city of Strasburg and the Rhine 
provinces were the great centre of 
what we may call the anti-churchly religious 
Hfe of the fourteenth century. The ru^ed 
German independence of character, and 
a certain dreamy, mystical enthusiasm, com- 
bined to make this district notorious ftv 
the number and ex^vajpances of its reli- 
gious sects, and good Christians were accus- 
tomed to r^ard the Rhineland and its people 
with a mixture of pious dread and scandalized 
curiosity. But in the second quarter of the 
fourteenth century the devoted Christian life 
and faithful preaching of one man, whose 
whole walk and conversation proclaimed 
him to be a man of God, turned the eyes of 
all faithfiil, pious souls, who were feeling the 
-darkness of that dreadful time and were long- 
ing for the light, to Strasburg, until they came 
to think that this sorely-tried city was indeed 
a source and centre of spiritual light to the 
beclouded Christian world. 

John Tauler of Strasbui^ is better known 
than most of his contemporaries, for the 
loving, tender touch of Miss Winkworth, in 
fcer little book, "The Life and History of 
Dr. John Tauler," has placed before us the 
everyday life, the thoughts, deeds, and ser- ; 
mons of this man of God. 

John Tauler was bom in Strasburg in the 
last decade of the thirteenth century. He 
belonged to a wealthy family, and might have 
lived at ease upon the family inheritance had 
he not resolved to forsake all and give him- 
self, in that way which the custom of the 
times sanctioned, to the service of God. It 
is said that in after-life he regretted that he 
had separated himself from the money which 
was hjs by rig^t of inheritance, and tluit 
broader and more spiritual views of the 
nature of the religious life taught him that 
in choosing a life of poverty and rejecting 
the wealth God had given him, he had not 
■done his duty as he at first supposed, but 
rather shirked it. It is said that he was accus- 
tomed to lament that he had put out of his 
reach that wealth which God had given him 
to use for His service, and so had, as it were, 
chosen a lower religious life and a more re- 
stricted field of action than that which God 
in His providence had called him to. It 
shows how far in advance of the religious 
feeling of his times Tauler bad got if such 
thoughts as these ever entered into his heart, 
and diey could not have been entertained by 

IV. H.8. 



a mere lad at the begianing of his religious 
career — for Tauler was only a boy when the 
call of God came to him, and compelled him 
to devote his life to His service. 

Tauler*s home must have been a pious 
one: more than one of the children felt 
called upon to devote themselves to a reli- 
gious life; at least one, and probably two, 
sisters became nuns; and in each case the 
religious life to which they gave themselves 
was not the mere mechanical one which a 
cloister-life so often means. Their subse- 
quent lives bore testimony to their sincerity, 
and to the reality of the spiritual longings 
which made them turn their back upon 
family, friends, and inheritance, and serve 
God in that way which the rule of the Church 
and the popular religious feeling had pointed 
out to be the most suitable for the higher 
Christian life. 

It was in 1308, or thereabouts — for we 
cannot be quite accurate in the chronology 
of Tauler^ life — ^that the thoughtful, hope^l 
lad entered the convent of the Dominican 
Order in Strasburg. He was too young then, 
probably, to know how eventful the times 
were, or with what anxiety statesmen and 
churchmen scanned the immediate future, 
and little guessed the prominent part he was 
to play in the great strife between Pope and 
Kaiser, between the world-priest and world- 
king, which was soon to cause such havoc in 
Europe. The pious young heart was occupied 
with other, holier thoughts, sacred to him at 
least, and to one family circle in Strasbuig, if too 
unimportant to attract the attention of others. 
He had proved himself, he no doubt thought. 
He had disinherited himself for the love of 
God, " esteeming the reproach of Christ 
greater riches than the treasures of Egypt ; " 
he had not been unworthy of Christ in this 
respect at least, that he had preferred father, 
or mother, or sister, or brother to Him. He 
had left all that was dear to him, and had 
followed the Master. His dark robe was to 
him a spiritual vesture proclaiming that he 
had been found worthy to devote himself to 
the higher Christian lile ; his vow of poverty 
a pledge that Christ had redeemed him from 
the necessity of taking anxious thought for 
the morrow ; and he had now at last really 
entered upon the most noble course of life 
which the present world could offer — ^he had 
become a Pleaching Friar, and had vowed to 
spend his strength in preaching the gospel Ctf,^ 

12 



t62 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



Christ. Tauler never thought little of his 
monastic vows, and to the end of his life 
felt it a privilege that he had been called to 
be a Dominican friar. He did think in after 
years that he might have served God better 
if he had kept his wealth and used it for God, 
but he never thought meanly of the monkish 
life. If his fond imaginings did not come 
true, if he was doomed to find within the con- 
vent walls the same secularity of behaviour, 
the same sordid and selfish thoughts, that 
was the fault of the men, he thought, not of 
the system. This is very noticeable in the 
sermons in which he scourges the vices of 
the clergy. "Thou poor, blind man," he 
says on one occasion, "spiritual in outward 
vesture, but not in reality, why shouldest 
thou not trust that the God who has done 
thee so great a benefit in redeeming thee 
from the carking cares of this ialse, wicked 
world, is also willing to give thee such poor, 
mean things as are needful for thy earthly 
substance ? And is it not a pitiful thing that 
a religious man should spend his whole in- 
dustry and sole effort, and have his thoughts 
turned day and night upon his own little 
doings, and should be so full of them that he 
can haidly ptopexiy hold convose with God 
in his own heart?" But all these sober reali- 
ties of the " religious life *' were in the future, 
and now he felt only the joy of the young 
enthusiast at last fairly entered on his voca- 
tions. The garb is different, and the voice 
somewhat strange, and the manner of life un- 
familiar, but there^ is here the old, old 
story of the experience of the hollowness of 
the world, the turning to God, and the joy in 
entering upon God's life and beginning to do 
God's work 

Soon after his entrance upon the monastic 
life Tauler was sent by his superiors to the 
Dominican College of St. James, in Paris, to 
study theology and kindred sdences; and to 
the scriptural character of the theological 
training which Eckhart had begun in this 
collie, he was doubtless indebted for 
much of that familiarity with the Holy Scrip- 
tures for which he was afterwards remarkable. 
We are told that Tauler was a good student, 
and that he studied theology carefully ; but, 
with characteristic indifference to the means 
provided the end was attained, he was accus- 
tomed to disparage theology when compared 
^v'ith the illumination which unlettered men 
may have when enlightened by the Holy Spirit. 
" Those great masters of Paris," he was ac- 
customed to say, "do read vast IxMks, and 
turn over the leaves with great diligence, 
which is a very good thing ; but these " (the 



men enlightened by the Spirit) "read the true 
living book, wherein all things live; they 
turn over the pages of the heavens and the 
earth, and read dierein the admirable won- 
ders of God." 

After finishing his education in Paris, 
Tauier in all probability returned to the 
convent in Strasbuig. For a long time we 
hear very little about him, and cannot trace 
his movements ; but it is likely that he re- 
mained quietly in his convent, unconsciously 
preparing himself for the great work he was 
soon to be called to do. We have no means 
of knowing with any exactness how Tauler 
came to adopt the peculiar mystical style of 
thought and preaching for which he was after- 
wards distinguished. Probably he learnt it 
first in Paris, for although Eckhart had quitted 
the College of St. James, the influence of his 
character and teaching still remained. The 
whole Dominican Order was also at this 
period of its history very much given over to 
a mystical theology, wmch would be sure to 
impress an eager, susceptible mind like 
Tauler's. Mysticism, too, was in the air in i 
Strasbuig and the Rhineland, and was not 
without Its effects upon the ordinary church- 
life as well as on the belief of those who 
were esteemed heretical sectaries. But it was 
from a friend, Nicolas of Strasburg, a Do- 
minican monk like himself, that Tauler 
learned his theolo^cal opinions, if he did 
not receive them durecdy from Eckhart him- : 
self, whom he must have met in the course 
of some of Eckhart's numerous visits to Stras- j 
burg. These opinions of his would not have 
deserved much attention had they been mere 
opinions, for Tauler was all his life a man of 
action rather than a man of thought; but 
they influenced his life by teaching him ever 
to.prefer Uie spirit to the letter, and to disre- 
gara, even at great po-sonal risk, the mere 
machinery of religion whenever that inter- 
fered with its practical efficiency. During 
this period, too, he made many friends, and 
seems to have become intimate with many of 
the members of the small circles of pious Chris- 
tians who had been drawn together by the 
exhortations of Eckhart. It is probable, too, 
that although Tauler did not become ac- 
quainted with Nicolas of Basle until a much 
later period, he knew several of the associates 
of Nicolas, and felt much sympathy with the 
life and the aim of the " Friends of God." 

This peaceful life, however, soon came to 
an end, and Tauler, very unexpectedly, ve 
may believe, was called upon to take up a 
position and do a work in his native town 
very different fix>m the life-work he hi&^a^- 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CEN'nJRY. 



; ceived would be his when he assumed the 
I robe of the Domiuican monk. 

In 1322 the strife between the two rival 
j claimants for the Imperial throne came to 
- an end, and Lewis of Bavaria completely 
triumphed over his rival, Frederick of Austria. 
The interregnum had lasted far more than 
eight years, and throughout the whole of this 
i period the Pope had carefully fomented the 
I quarrel, hoping to found the temporal power 
j securely on the ruins of the Holy Roman Em- 
j pire. The skill and good fortune of Lewis 
' had prevailed in spite of all that the Pope 
had done to prevent it, and his Holiness 
found it necessary to take more energetic 
measures to crush his great enemy — for so 
he considered the legitimately elected and 
now triumphant Emperor of Germany. Ac- 
cordingly, he laid' under an interdict all those 
dcies and provinces of Germany which paid 
homage to their lawful prince ; wherever the 
authori^ of Lewis was acknowledged, there 
was sent the papal excommunication. The 
city of Strasburg, like most of tfie great 
towns, declared in favour of the Emperor, 
and acknowledged his authority; and so it 
was laid under an interdict, and remained in 
this condition for nearly twenty-six years. It 
is almost impossible for us now to conceive 
such a state of things as this act of the Pope's 
brought about, nor the amount of suffering 
inflicted by it upon the devoted city. When 
any- town or province was laid under an in- 
terdict, the churdies were all closed, there 
was no public worship, no ministrations of 
the clergy ; the whole of the religious life of 
the people ceased for the time, and the ordi- 
nary everyday life was, as it were, suddenly 
put out of joint. No church-bells tolled out 
their chimes, calling men to labour, to rest, 
and to prayer. No baptisms were performed, 
there were no marriage services, and the 
bodies of the dead were buried without reli- 
gious rite of any kind in unconsecrated 
ground. The curse of the Church, as it 
were, rested on the unhappy people, the poor 
were unfed, the weak unprotected, and no 
spiritual counsellor and friend visited the bed- 
sides of the sick and the dying. The people 
were abandoned by the clergy to live and 
die as they might, and all because they chose 
to acknowledge an emperor of whom the 
Pope did not approve. As might have been 
expected, the hardy burghers of Strasburg 
were not to be coerced by such measures ; 
the only result of the interdict was to inflame 
their minds against the cleigy. The priests 
and members of the religious orders were 
mobbed when ■ they ventured out into the 



streets ; there were frequent riots and bloody 
street-fights between the clergy and their 
sympathizers and the citizens. This was 
the state of things in the midst of which 
John Tauler all at once found himself. His 
course was not so difficult as it might have 
been to a man of his convictions, for it was 
an ancient privilege of the Dominican and 
Franciscan Orders to celebrate mass, bap- 
tize, marry, confess, and perform the other 
clerical duties during an interdict Still this 
privilege was not always exercised, and it re- 
quired courage to take advantage of it and 
minister to the people who were lying under 
papal excommunication. Tauler did not 
hesitate. Along with a devoted band of 
Dominican and Franciscan monks he re- 
mained in the city when most of his brethren 
and most of the clergy deserted it, minister- 
ing^ spiritual consolation to all who had need 
<^ i^ hoping, and encouraging others to hope, 
for an end of this sad time. Five years 
passed wearily, and still the people remained 
faithful to the Emperor, and still the bann 
lay upon them. Then the Emperor resolved 
to retaliate : he commanded that no one 
should observe the interdict, and that all 
throughout his dominions the observances of 
religion should go on as if there was no in- 
terdict This only made matters worse. 
Many of the clergy were willing to adminis- 
ter the consolations of religion to the people 
even when the Pope had forbidden them, 
but few cared to do so because the Emperor 
commanded them. The Emperor's com- 
mand was a new difficulty ; it i^ft their ec- 
clesiastical disobedience of a more prominent 
and heinous kind, and made them wonder 
whether they were right in rendering unto 
Caesar the things that were God's. Even 
Tauler hesitated. He could well enough 
disregard the favour of the Pope and his 
ecclesiastical superiors when he saw his duty 
clearly, and when his conscience told him 
decidedly what to do. But duty was not so 
clear, nor was conscience so outspoken, when 
he saw that to disobey the Pope was to obey 
the secular powers, was to make himself an 
instrument whereby secular men could defy 
the censures of the Church, and was to place 
himself in a position of present security while 
the rest of the clergy were liable to "severe 
secular pains and penalties. For however 
difficult it is for us to conceive it, the 
mediaeval Church, in spite of all her corrup- 
tidns, was yet the Church of God to Tauler 
and his contemporaries; its censures and 
interdicts, however wrongfully imposed, were 
real spiritual penalties; ^i^^|^^^^6Pf<^|^g5^[^ 



164 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



4 



real head of God's Church, and in some in- 
definable way God's Vicar. They had not 
freed themselves from these ideas, the great 
Reformation was still a long way oS, and 
they might well falter in a difficulty like the 
one in which Tauler now found himself. 
And Tauler did falter; he could not let the 
people perish for lack of spiritual knowledge, 
and so he remaned in Strasburg; but he felt 
a few qualms of conscience in so doing, and 
he evidently found great consolation in occa- 
sional opportunities of refusing to exercise 
his spiritual funcdons at the bidding of the 
secular authorities. It is not without a cer- 
tain air of calm triumph that he writes to a 
friend, " I have been called before the princes 
of this world, who have proscribed me, so 
that there is no peace for me in this land 
unless I consent to perform mass;" and 
again, " I may not as yet dare to appear 
openly in the land." A deeper spiritual ex- 
perience taught him to judge more clearly 
later in life; bat at this time it is evident 
that it was a matter of great difficulty to him 
to set himself in opposition to the Church and 
the clergy. 

It was while engaged in this work in 
Strasbuig that Tauler proved himself to be the 
model of a Christian clergyman, and that his 
fame began to be spread abroad far beyond 
the confines of his native city. He preached 
almost daily to crowds of people who thronged 
to hear him, and the whole of his time was 
devoted to ministering to the spiritual neces- 
sities of his townsmen. The sermons of 
Tauler which have been presored belong in 
all probability to a later period of his life, 
but the same extensive knowledge of Scrip- 
ture, the pithy and homely exhortation, and 
the plain German utterance doubtless cha- 
ntcterized them. But there were other i^ces 
besides Strasbuig whidi lay under the papal 
interdict, and which had no Tauler to preach 
the gospel and administer the sacraments; 
and he often felt compelled to make long 
journeys from Strasburg to preach to and 
exhort faithful Christian people. On these 
journeys he made many friends, and found 
much helpful encouragement. The old reli- 
gious cirdes founded by Eckhart were still in 
existence, and the members of most of them 
were sufficiently emancipated from the preju-<. 
dices of tlie age to be able to admire a man who 
for the sake of the people was contented to 
brave the anger of his ecclesiastical superiors. 
And when he came bade to Strasburg to his 
solitary work there, he was often cheered by 
visits from his friends and by welcome letters 
full of sympathy with him in Ihs work. 



Among these friends of his were the Christian 
ladies Margaret and Christina Ebner, who 
did much to encourage Tauler, and whose 
kind Christian advice and sympathy cheered 
and helped him in his toilsome labours. It 
was they, moreover, who probably brought 
Tauler and Nicolas of Basle together, and so 
were main instruments in bringing about that 
remarkable change in Tauler which is called 
his "conversion," and which influenced in a 
deep and abiding way the whole of his future 
life. 

Hie interview which Nicolas had witli 
Tauler has been alluded to in the paper upon 
Nicolas of Basle, in the November number 
of this magazine ; but we must now describe 
it at some length, as it forms the central point 
in the religious life of this great preacher, 
and because all those sermons of his which 
have descended to us were written after 
the visit. The history of this interview 
has long been known, an account of it is 
often bound up with the oldest collections 
of Tattler's sermons, and it was formerly 
supposed to have been written by Tauler 
himself; but Professor Schmidt has dis- 
covered, as I showed, that die author was 
Nicolas of Basle, the mysterious visitor lum- 
self, and every one who reads the history 
must be confirmed in this opinion by many 
little touches which make it plain that it is 
told from the point of view of " the man " 
who came to hear and converse with Tauler, 
not of the preacher himselt It must be 
remembered that this remarkable change took 
place long after Tauler had become famous 
for his holy life and his faithful preachibg. 
In Tauler's earlier years we bear no tales of 
severe mental stru£^es with sin and doubt 
and temptation ending in the victory o£ the 
grace of God over UM human soiU. His 
early life was calm and peaceful; he had 
been brought up in a pious household, and 
had in his youth given himself calmly to a 
religious life; circumstances revealed that 
be possessed a strength of character of which 
he himself was at first hardly conscious ; and 
his devoted life and high-toned piety had made 
him famous throughout Italy and Germany. 
It was before his conversion " that one 01 
the Ebners spoke of him as "the holiest of 
God's children now living upon tliis earth," 
and said tliat the "Spint of God breathed 
through him as sweet music through a lute." 
But yet it is undoubted tliat after this famous 
interview with Nicolas a change did come over 
Tauler, and that he himself and his most 
intimate friends did believe that what is 
called Tauler's " conversion " was a real con- 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



version, and tliat he did thereafter enter 
upon and continue as in a higher Christian 
life than he before lived. 

The narrative is particularly interesting as 
giving a detailed account, from the pen of 
Nicolas himself, of his method of dealing 
with those whom he sought to influence. All 
who have not already done so, should read 
Miss Winkworth's beautiful translation of this 
little book. 

Tauler had been at Basle as eariyas 1338, 
and probably then attracted the notice of 
Nicolas; but it was not till eight years later, 
in X346, that Nicolas set out for Strasbu^, 
in order to hear him preach and become 
acquainted with him. He heard Tauler 
preach five times, " and saw that he was a 
loving, good-hearted man, of good under- 
standiDg in the Scriptures, but without the 
light of grace." Then he introduced himself 
to Tauler, as a man who had come thirty 
leagues to hear him preach, ^d now wished 
to confess to him, and receive the Communion 
from him. This was no doubt a common 
enough occurrence in the time of Tayler's 
popularity, and the preacher s^ms to have 
asked no fiirther questions. For many weeks 
they continued on the same footing, a At 
last, one day Nicolas begged of his confessor 
that he would preach a sermon to show " how 
a man may attain to the highest point it is 
given us to reach in this life." After some 
hesitation Tauler agreed to the request, and 
it was announced that on a certain day he 
would preach on the subject proposed. 
When the day came a large congregation 
had assembled, and Nicolas chose a place 
where he could see and hear well. The 
sermon, which is given in full in the original 
narrative, declares that the hi|;best point to 
which a man can attain in this life is to be 
entirely freed from self and united to God, 
and gives twenty-four " signs " by which the 
hearers might try themselves and see if they 
had attained to diat blessed condition. When 
the sermon was ended Nicolas went home 
and wrote it down word for word, and then 
brought it to Tauler, who was greatly asto- 
nished at the ability displayed by this man, 
whom he had looked upon as simple and 
unlearned ; and still more surprised when 
Nicolas informed him that he had not come 
to Strasburg in order to hear him preach, but 
because he hoped with God's help to give 
him some good counsel He then began to 
criticize the sermon, and the preacher's own 
life, telling him that he was still under the 
power of the letter, and was still a Pharisee. 
Such language from a layman to one whom 



he had up to this time been treating as his 
spiritual father was a rude shock, and Tauler 
felt hurt and angry. Nicolas argued with 
him long and skilfully, using Tauler's anger 
as a proof of how far he was from having 
attained to the perfect life of which he had 
been preaching, and in reply to the argument 
that he, as a layman, had no right to rebuke 
and instruct a priest, quoted from church 
history the story of St. Catherine of Alex- 
andria. " Did not she, a maiden of fourteen, 
conAite iiSty of the most learned do(^rs?" 
Tauler answered that the Holy Spirit enabled 
her to do so. "Then do you not believe," 
said Nicolas, ''that the Holy Spirit has still 
the same power?" "Yes," was the reply, 
" I believe it fully." " Then, why not believe 
that the same Holy Spirit is now speaking 
to you through me, a poor sinner and un- 
worthy man ? " After several conversations 
of this nature, Tauler yielded to the con- 
victions that Nicolas sought to impress 
on him, sajrii^ at last that he felt like the 
woman of Sainaria when Christ told her all 
that ever ^e did. He entreated Nicolas 
to remain with him always, to celebrate mass 
in his ^lace, and to become his spiritual 
father. "Dear sir," replied Nicolas, "if 
you speak so contnuy to ordinances, I will 
go home again." However, at Tauler's 
request, he remained at Strasburg, and gave 
him many directions as to the way in which 
he might attain to that perfect life of which 
he had spoken in ignorance. He gave him 
an alphabet of rules for the higher life, which 
Tauler was to leam one by one by putting 
them in practice; and they cost him, he told 
Nicolas when he had learned them all, 
more stripes than the alphabet he learned in 
childhood had done. Then Nicolas told 
him that to attain yet more complete union 
with God and submission to His will, he 
must for many months neither read nor 
preach nor hear confessions ; to his penitents 
he was to say, " When I have learned how to 
counsel myself aright, I will counsel you." 
He might sing in choir with the rest of his 
brethren, but at all other times he must remain 
in his ceU, read the " Homs of Devotion," and 
meditate on the sufferings of Christ, and on 
the smallness of his love and self-sacrifice 
compared with his Lord's. Without hesita- 
tion the idolised popular preacher obeyed 
implicitly, left tiie pulpit and the confessional, 
and remained in sohtude in his cell His 
friends and hearers at first remonstrated, and 
when he remained obstinate, they all, as 
Nicolas had foretold they woulck^lespised^ 
and forsook him. Befc^'l^^^lfttf (^^MK 



i66 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



Tauler, worn out by his lonely life, and by 
the austerities which he practised in order to 
bring hia body into subjection, had become 
wretched in mind and body — " his head was 
like to turn." In )iis distress he sent for 
Nicolas, who came to him at once, and told 
him that he need no longer practise any 
austerities, for he had now completely sub- 
dued the flesh, and " when the body is tamed," 
he said, " we must come to its help with 
remedies." He therefore exhorted Tauler to 
eat good food, and gave him a box.of spices 
which he himself had used when in tlie same 
weak state. Then, probably wishmg to see 
how far the spirit as well as the body was 
subdued, he said that it was now time for 
him to return home ; if Tauler could not do 
without him he would stay, but it would be 
better for him to depend only on GodL 
Tauler replied, " I will commit myself to 
God.** Nicolas, therefore, took leave of his 
disciple, charging him still to spend his time 
in the same course of prayer and meditation, 
and if he should be in need to pawn some of 
his books, not to sell them, for the time 
would come when he would need them. 
Another year had passed away in this manner, 
when, on the festival of the Conversion of St. 
Paul, Tauler, after a sore fight with inward 
temptation, was lying exloausted in his cell, 
his mind dwelling on the love of Christ and 
the poor return he had made for all his Lord 
had done for him, and praying for mercy and 
forgiveness, if to one so unworthy they could 
indeed be granted, when he heard a vcnce 
saying to him, "Stand fast in peace and 
trust in God." When the voice had spoken, 
his senses forsook him, and when he returned 
to himself he felt his soul filled with a peace 
such as he had never known before. He 
sent at once for Nicolas, and told him what 
had happened. Nicolas told him that now 
he was truly fit to preach, and the time had 
now come when his books would be of use 
to him, and he gave him thirty florins to 
redeem those he had pawned. 

It was announced that Tauler was to 
preach again after his long silence, and a 
great crowd of people assembled to hear 
him, so that when he saw them he went into 
a higher place than the ordinary pulpit (per- 
haps the rood-loft, from which in some an- 
cient churches the Gospel used to be read), 
that he might be heard by all He held his 
hood before his eyes and prayed, and then 
he tried to begin his sermon; but nothing 
would come into his mind but the thoughts 
he had had in his cell — of his own unworthi- 
ness and Christ's great love; and these 



thoughts filled his heart so fiill that he wept 
Again and again he tried to speak, but always 
broke down, weeping. At last the great 
congregation had to leave the churcl^ saying 
to each other, " His futings and vigils have 
weakened his brain ; he is mad — he will 
never preach again." And his superiors for- 
bade him again to enter the pulpit Nicolas 
comforted his friend, telling him that this 
trial was a sign of love, and perhaps sent to 
remove some sin, such as pride, still re- 
maining in his heart He advised him, that 
after spending some time in meditation with- 
out speaking to any one, he should offer to 
read a Latin discourse to his brethren in the 
monastery. He was permitted to do this, 
and die discourse was so good that Uie pro- 
hibition against his preaching was removed. 
He therefore preached again, this time in the 
chapel of a convent, to a crowded congrega- 
tion. His text was, " Behold, the Bridegroom 
cometh " — tlie sepnon, in that style of mys- 
tical allegorizing, so usual with the mediaeval 
preachers and with those of the same school 
of thought in our own day, by which these 
passages of Scripture where the earthly mar- 
riage relation is used as a type of divine re- 
lationship are expounded not as typifying 
the relation of Christ to the Church, but of 
Christ and the individual soul. The sermon 
was, as many great sermons have been, a 
transcript of the preacher's own e3q}erience, 
though only Nicolas, of all the crowd, could 
tell, as he who read the history can tdl now, 
that it was so. A man like Tauler could not 
have consciously spoken of bimsel£ He de- 
scribed with great force and beauty how 
Christ seeks the love of the soul. His bride, 
and wins her to Himself by His love-gifts of 
trial and suffering, till at last the marriage 
festival is held, and the soul becomes wholly 
united to her hoid ; and when thus made 
one with Him, "the joy of the bride with 
her Bridegroom is so great that no man can 
apprehend it" As the preacher uttered these 
words a man in the crowd cried out with 
a loud voice, It is . true," and fell down in- 
sensible. A woman near him called out, 
" Master, leave off, or this man will die on 
our hands." Tauler replied, " Ah, dear chil- 
dren, if the Bridegroom take the bride and 
lead her home, we will gladly yield her ; 
nevertheless, for this time I will leave off.'' 
The great mass of the congregation dispersed, 
and Tauler celebrated the Eucharist, and ad- 
ministered the Communion to some pious 
people. Nicolas, who sat where he could 
see into the churchyard, observed that when 
the congregation dispeg^,^^t(ie^^j3^ 



1 



RELIGIOUS LIFE IN THE 



FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 167 



about forty people remained in the church- 
yard, lying there as if dead ; but when mass 
was ended and he looked again, most of the 
stricken ones had recovered and gone away, 
and there were only twelve left who still lay 
unconscious. The nuns of the convent also 
told Tauler that one of the sisters who had been 
present at the sermon was now lying in the 
same state. Nicolas was not alarmed as the 
others were ; he was apparently used to such 
manifestations, and knew quite well what to 
do. He requested that the good sisters would 
have all these poor people taken into the 
house and laid on beds, and as each came 
to himself, have lead^ for him something 
warm to drink, " and if he will take i^ give 
it him in Christ's name." He further said to 
Tauler that he must let these people rest 
awhile, for they had received as much truth 
as they could digest for some time ; and ad- 
vised him next time to preach to those " in 
the world" — in modem language to "the 
unconverted." Tauler accordingly preached 
a series of sennons in which he attacked all 
the prevalent vices of Strasburg at that time ; 
the cheating and usury practised by the 
tradesmen and merchants, the pride and 
luxury of the rich and noble, the unjust judg- 
ments given by many of ihc magistrates. 
These sermons caused great excitement, and 
many of the citizens were furiously angry 
with Tailler; but, on the other hand, man^ 
were seriously impressed, and forsook their 
evil ways. 

This interview and its wonderful results, a 
second conversion and a real entrance upon 
a higher Christian life — for we cannot doubt 
the reality of the change — came in the middle 
of Tauler's ministry in Strasburg, as if to pre- 
pare him for the terrible time which was now 
close at hand. In 2347 the Emperor Lewis 
died, and the land hqped for rest ; but it was 
not to be so. The new emperor was elected 
through the machinations of the Pope, and 
many German cities and i}rovince8 refused to 
acknowledge the priest-King, as they called 
him, and Strasburg still remained under the 
interdict. Then in the next year, 1348, the 
city was visited by that dreadful pestilence the 
*' black death," the most deadly plague that 
has ever entered Europe. In many places 
scarcely men enough were left to bury the 
dead ; in the soudi of France two out of 
every three of the people died ; in Strasburg 
alone sixteen thousand perished. The clergy 
said that the plague was sent by God to 
punish the people for rebelling against the 
'Pope, and they refiised to attend to the sick 
and dying. The people, especially the pea- 



santry, thought that it had been produced by 
the incantations of the Pope and the clergy, 
and all manner of strange superstitions were 
afloat. The temper of the people may be 
guessed at from the wild belief entertained 
by many that Frederick II., the great priest- 
hating emperor, would reappear as Messiah, 
and, by destroying the Pope and all the 
clergy, restore peace to the earth. Their 
miseries made the people half-insane, ready 
to listen to all manner of wild notions and 
apt to tijm upon their best friends. In Stras- 
burg only four of the clergy — Tauler and 
three of his friends — ^remained faithful to 
their chai^, and lived with their people all 
through this terrible time. The scenes they 
witnessed are quite beyond our imagination. 
Day after day they went their rounds com- 
forting the sick, praying with the dying, and 
helping to bury the dead. The difficulties 
they had to encounter and overcome are in- 
describable, and the ordinary hazards of life 
were much increased by the strange fancies 
of the half-maddened people. Many thought 
the end of the world was at hand, and stolidly 
resigned themselves to their fate; others 
landed that such a punishment demanded 
new and strange kinds of repentance. These 
were the days when the Flagellants wandered 
through the plague - stricken lands, really 
spreading the infection, and adding to the 
terrors of the people by their strange prac- 
tices. Pictures in the old books enable us 
to conceive the long procession of the strange, 
wild enthusiasts. Clad in white robes stained 
here and there with blood, tossing their arms 
in the air, and chanting in rude German dog- 
gerel — 

" Now lift your bandi on htgb. 
That God may makft men cease to die ; 
Now lift your arms on high. 
That God bimtelf may boar our cry;"— 

they entered the plague-stricken towns, and 
marching through the streets entered one of 
the churches; then, after hearing service, 
they rushed out into the streets, and, throw- 
ing themselves on the ground, confessed their 
sins, and scourged themselves until the blood 
came from their wounds. 

What a wonderful centre of calm in the 
midst of all this Tauler and his preaching 
must have been to the citizens of Strasburg ! 
Jt was at this time that he earned the title of 
the " Preacher of Repentance," the name by 
which he is perhaps best known. We must 
refer all who wish to know what his sermons 
were like -to Miss Winkworth's translation. 
They will find there many things quaint and 
strange, and many which they ctmnot hd[p¥ 
feeling are objectionab||,ii^tiip^aii©^)#lC 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



fourteenth century were not our way, nor 
was its language quite the same as ours ; but 
every sympathetic heart will find in them the 
utterance of a man who has felt what it is to 
turn from sin to God, what it is to rest 
on Christ, and what it is to be filled with the 
hope of glor}'. In that terrible time in 
Strasburg Tauler laboured to teach his fellow- 
citizens that to be forsaken by the cle^ was 
not to be forgotten by God, and d^t the 
divine life did not of necessity mean a life 
lived under a clerical robe. " I know a man," 
he said, " who has the closest walk with God 
of any I ever saw, and who has been aU his life 
a husbandman, for more than forty years, 
and is so sdU. This man once asked the 
Lord in prayer, if he should give up his 
occupation and go into the church, and it 
was answered to him, 'No.' He should 
labour, earning his bread by the sweat of his 
brow, to the glory of Christ's precious blood 
shed for him." He was very faithful in 
pointing out the wortblessness of any salva- 
tion but that won for us by Christ " We 
find many people," he said, " who never look 
to anything beyond their outward conduct ; 
they perform good works and behave iv^ith 
decorum, and then think they have done all ; 
white their inward part is altogether over- 
grown and choked up' with the creature, by 
which they are held fast to their hurt." But 
above all, he preached the gospel of rest in 
the Lord. "And you may ask, 'How can 
we come to perceive this direct leading of 
God ? ' By a careful looking at home, and 
abiding within the gates of thy own souL 
Therefore let a man be at home in his own 
heart, and c^c from his restless chase of 
and search after outward things. If he is 
thus at home while on earth, he will surely 
come to see what there is to do at home — 
what God commands him inwardly without 
means, and also outwardly by the help of 
means; and then let him surrender himself 
and follow God along whatever path his 
loving Lord thinks fit to lead him ; whether 
it be to contemplation or action, to useful- 
ness or enjoyment, whether in sorrow or in 
joy, let him follow on." I have not space 
left to recotmt the story of tiie rest of Tauler's 
life. His protest against the Pope's conduct 
in laying an interdict upon die German 
States, in which he boldly said that excom- 
munication fell harmlessly on innocent per- 
sons ; the persecutions which he endured 
when the Pope's party at last gained the 
upper hand in Strasburg ; his banishment from 
his dearly loved native city ; his wanderings 
and his last illness, must be left undesciibed. 



When he fell ill and felt that he was about to 
die, he sent for Nicolas of Basle to be beside 
him in his last moments. Nicolas asked, and 
his friend gave, the promise which has been 
so often asked and given, that if it were 
possible the spirit of the departed should 
come ^ain from the other world, and ^ve 
some sign to the mourner left behmd. 
Tauler had not a triumphant death-bed ex- 
perience, he was assaulted by many tempta- 
tions, and died in great agony, and Nicolas 
and his other friends were greatly perplexed 
that such a saintly man should have so hard 
a death. 

The people of Strasburg wished to show 
honour to Nicolas, as the friend of their 
great preacher; but he, hearing of their 
intention, left the town secretly. On the 
third evening of bis journey, seeing no inn 
where he could pass the nig^t, he went up to 
a nobleman's castle, and aslced sh^ter for 
himself and his servant, which was cordially 
granted, and they were hospitably lodged 
according to their degrees, Nicolas in a 
small chamber "with a feather-bed," while 
his servant was sent to lie in the bam among 
the straw. In the middle of the night it 
seemed to Nicolas that he woke, hearing a 
voice in his room; but seeing no one, he 
trembled and nmde the sign of the cross. 
Then the voice spoke again, telling him that 
his friend Tauler had come, according to his 
promise, to give him a sign from the other 
side of the grave. Nicolas then asked how 
it was that he had such a hard and painful 
death. The spirit replied that it was in 
order that he might be thoroughly purged 
from the sins of the body, and thus enter 
straight into Paradise, without having to pass 
through the fires of purgatory, — and now he 
was enjoying a fulness of joy which no words 
could utter. "And thou, too," he added, 
"shalt have a hard death." After this the 
voice ceased. Nicolas spoke often, asking 
many more questions, but no answer came. 

The prophecy of the vision was truly 
fulfilled more than thirty years later, when 
the "Great Layman" was burned at the 
stake at Vienna 

For centuries traditions of him and his 
sermons, again and again republished, were 
all that the peo[)le of Strasburg bad to 
remind them of their great pastor ; but some 
years ago a stone was set up over his grave 
by the Protestants of the town, in the church 
where five hundred years before the " great 
preacher of repentance " had preached his 
wonderful sermons to his fellow-townsmen. 

THOMAS M. LINDSAY. ( j 



THE EMBROIDERY FRAME. 



169 



THE EMBROIDERY FRAME. 



'J'HE snow falls fast, the trees are white, 
There's scarce a living thing in sight, 
Few travellers cross the fells to-day, 
Alas ! for those who miss their way ] 
For loudly soughs the wintry wind, 
Sure herald of a storin behind. 
Pile high the logs and make them hlaze, 
No time for work like snow-bonnd days. 
Biing ont your frame, the canvas spread, 
Secure it fast with nail and thread, 
Ihen fetch and open in the light 



Your stores of silk and flosses bright. 
And soon the dark December hours 
We'll brighten with our magic flowers. 
A crimson rose shall first be seen 
Encased in leaves of glossy green : 
See how its petals, one by one, 
Grow slowly till the flower is done. 
A lily nett shall soft unfold. 
The stainless leaves and stamens gold. 
These queenly flowers shall soft entwine 
The modest Hltle columbine. 




With lilies of the valley meek. 
And wild rose like a maiden's cheek. 
Here spider-wort will look its best, 
In regal gold and purple drest ; 
And when all these have opened wide, 
There's room for many a flower beside ; 
No gardener surely could forget 
To plant a bed of mignonette, 
Nor we could call his work complete 
Without the jasmine trailing sweet. 
There's still a little empty space, 
And so we'll give that Bower a pUce 



Called Seal of Solomon, arrayed 
In white and green of daintiest shade, 
A marigold place here and there 
Geranium and narcissus fair, 
With fuchsias pink and red and white. 
And wall-flowers, summer's first delight. 
Behold our garden, how it grows, 
Amid December's falling snows ! 
The brilliant blossoms one by one 
Betray no lack of summer sun. 
Their fragrance is not wafted by, 
But they will never droop or die ! 



170 



SUNDAY MAGAZINii. 



CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT. 



IT has been veil said in these pages that the 
writing of a good hymn is a surer em- 
balmment than the art of the Egyptian 
apothecary could ever compass. Charlotte 
Elliott has the honour to rank with the rare 
few who have interpreted a high plane of 
religious emotion truly, and associated it with 
sentiment and imagery which Christian hearts 
to the end of time will love and cherish and 
find refuge in. It is another illustration of 
, the truth — which, stated barely, may savour 
of paradox — that the way to secure the truest 
fame is not to seek for it Self-abnegation, 
the consciousness of personal unworthiness, 
, the intense longing for help and hope and 
' comfort firom another treasury than earth 
. knov^ — this is the source of that music 
{ which, rising spontaneously in the individual 
, heart, strikes hke light across the conscious- 
] ness of Christians everywhere ; justifying its 
j author in the implicit acceptance which it 
( receives as the bona _;5d!f utterance of all. This 
is what practically marks off the hymn from 
the religious poem, which may permit the 
infusion of what is more primarily special 
and individual. It is thus that the tiue hjtna 
embalms. 

"Just as I am" has embalmed a memory. 
Charlotte Elliott wrote , muc}} beside ttus 
favourite hymn, and sometimes she was very 
fresh in feeling aii,d finished in form ; but none 
of her other pieces solieartUy and wholly 
taken to the bosom,pf the Christian Church. 
Yet there is much in her writings besides 
which is well worthy of study, as revealing 
the various trmts of a character which, in 
spite of physical weakness and much suffer- 
ing, was nill of gentleness, patience, and 
quiet rejoicmg strength. Some time ago a 
collection of her poems was issued by the 
Religious Tract Society, together with a 
memoir of her sister, and now, "in conse- 
quence of the wishes expressed by many 
readers of the previous volume, it has been 
thought desirable to prepare a second, con- 
taining extracts from her Letters, Journals^ 
and Poems, hitherto unpublished." Let us, 
with these two volumes in our hand, try to 
get a closer acquaintance with the author of 
"Just as I am." 

Born in 1789, she was the third daughter 
of Charles Elliott, Esq., of Clapham and 
Brighton. Her mother was the eldest daugh- 
ter of the Rev. Henry Venn, of Yelling, 
whose name is yet fragrant as that of one of 



the leaders in the great religious awakening 
of last century. She was thus connected on 

both sides with families who have for long 
been identified with the progress of evange- 
lical religion in the land. From girlhood she ' 
was an invalid, rallying sufficiently in the 
summer months to be able to visit friends at ■ 
a distance. Before the removal of her father 
from Clapham to Brighton, she had seen 
something of sodety and accomplished peo- 
ple; and there was imich in her nature to ' 
make her desire such society; for she was ■ 
fond of music, a good conversationalist, and 1 
in other wajrs accomplished. But in the 
midst of this gaiety she fell ill In her seclu- < 
sion her mind was much clouded and exer- 
cised about religion; and, fortunately, at 
this crisis, she was brought into contact with 
that good man. Dr. Caesar Malan, who was 
blessed in the privilege of clearing away 
clouds from many souls besides hers.' For 
forty years the two corresponded, and the 
anniversary of her awakening under his hand 
was kept as a festival day to the end q£ ha 
long life. 

Previous to this, her reading had been very 
discursive ; but now *' she threw aside for a 
time the authors she had found most attractive, 
and confined herself to the exclusive Btudprt^ 
Holy Scripture." It was like an awakemng. 
The pas^iges tha^ had before been without , 
meaning and diill, now JOashed with reveal- | 
ing light, she found its words ^eak with ; 
power to her soul. She had alreaedy. written 
a good dell of poetry; now h.ei'-wKole talents 
became consecratedto the service of religion. 
In 1823 there came a series of famDy byea^^ 
ments, which combined to deepen 1% re- 
ligious convictions. In the wnhimw rtfr4hat 
year, as it was thought change would do her j 
good, she visited her friend Miss Wadding- 
ton, at St. Remy, Normandy, and was able [ 
to see Paris. Coming home much strength- 
ened, she shortly joined a district society, 
undCT Mrs. Flty and the Rev. Edward Irving, 
and, so far as her health allowed, went heartily 
into the work. She was active in many 
Christian schemes — ^was the intimate friend 
of the Wilberforces, the Leveson Gowers, the 
MacNeiles, the Hoares ; and often, when she 
was unable to join the family party, would 
greatly enjoy their converse in her own room- 
So some years passed happily. Her health, 
however, entirely gave way in 1829, andTrfien, 
in the autumn of that yea^^i^ Mgis recoro- | 



CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT. 



171 



mended she should be sent to Devonshire for 
change, "she was so weak that she had to 
be lifted into the carriage." This is how she 
writes to her sister from Devonshire respect- 
ing her state of mind '. — 

"Oh, how many hard struggles and appa- 
rently fruitless ones, has it cost me to become 
resigned to this appointment of my heavenly 
Father! But ihe struggle is ova' mm. He 
knows, "and He alone, what it is, day after 
•day, hour after hour, to fight against bodily 
feelings of almost overpowering weakness 
;md languor and exhaustion; to resolve, as 
He enables me to do, not to yield to the 
slothfulness and the self-indulgence, the de- 
pression, the irritability such a body causes 
me to long to indulge, but to rise every 
morning, determined on taking this for my 
motto : * If any man mil come after me, let 
him deny himself, take up his cross daily, 
and follow me ;* and I trust He has made me 
wilUng to do this, and has also made the 
sorrows and suiferings of my earthly life the 
blessed means of detaching my heart from 
the love of it, and of giving me a longing, 
which seems each day to grow stronger, only 
to be made meet for my great change, to be 
sanctified wholly in body, soul, and spirit" 

So, with but slight respites, Charlotte Elliott 
lived through her busy and influential life. 
Yes ; busy and influential it was, in spite of 
its being that of an almost chronic invalid. 
In 1834 the Elliotts became acquainted with 
a Miss Kieman, of Dublin, who had for a 
number of years prepared the Christifln Re- 
membrancer Pocket -Book, which Charlotte 
Elliott, at her request, now she was weak and 
failing, undertook to edit. It was a pleasant 
labour, in spite of much painful effort, and it 
was enriched by many of her own original 
poems — the rest being composed of carefully 
selected private MSS. and letters. The sale 
increased wonderfully, and the proceeds were 
given to a charitable institution in Dublin, 
which Miss Kieman had founded. In her 
last illness, too, Miss Kieman had prepared 
a hymn-book for invalids ; it came as a last 
legacy from her into Charlotte Elliotfs hands 
to be revised, and she insnted in it upwards of 
a hundred original hymni^ composed either 
herself or by the Rev. Hugh White, who had 
begun life as an officer in the army, but after- 
wards took orders. In this hymn-book " Just 
^ I am " was first published, and in a short 
time the sale of the book increased, and it 
has now reached the eighteenth thousand. 
In connection with this, the following anec- 
dote may be told : — 

" A young lady fiiend was so struck with 



it, that she had it printed as a leaflet and 
widely circulated, without any idea by whom 
it had been composed. It. happened rather 
curiousfy that while we were living at Tor- 
quay, our valued Christian physician came to 
us one morning, having in his hand this 
leaflet. He oflfered it to my sister, saying, 
* I am sure this will please you; '-and great 
indeed was his astonishment at finding that 
it was written by herself, though by what 
means it had been thus printed and circulated 
she was utterly ignorant Shortly after we 
became acquamted with the lady who had 
printed it" 

In 1835 ^iss Elliottwas able to undertake 
a journey to Scotland, which afibrded her 
great delight. She says 

" When w« crossed the Tweed, and entered 
the land I hare so long loved and so often 
diought 0^ and so earnestly desired to visit; 
I felt sensations di unusual delight, blended 
with heartfelt gratitude to Him who, even in 
this our brief earthly pilgrimage, provides for 
us, and delights to bestow, so many varied 
enjoyments and sweet refreshments. Our 
friends contrived that I should enter Scot- 
land by a road rich in beauty and in objects 
of interest. The silvery transparent Tweed, 
its richly-wooded banl^, the fine seats em- 
bosomed in wood around it, with the beauti- 
ful range of the Pentland Hills, far more 
beautiful than our favourite Malvern, — all 
these things woke up feelings that long had 
slept in my bosom ; ami often and often the 
tear <tf rapture started to my eye." 

In 1836 she was so ill that her life was de- 
spaired of; and, after this, she had but short 
escapes fix>m pain ; yet she writes thus : — 

" I dwell upon the thought more and 
more, that our earthly life is only a short 
journey, some of its stages wearisome and 
long, perhaps, but not one that does not 
carry us nearer to our home ; and, blessed be 
God, not one that is not cheered by his 
presence, and passed through under his 
gracious direction ; and while these are 
granted, the soul is happy, and even joyful, 
thouj^ she feels the burden and the clog of a 
suflering mortal frame. My own mmtai 
a>mfort, I own, almost surprises me, so 
constant even here is the sense of bodily 
weariness and indispositi<m ; but the sweet 
hop^ almost amounting to conviction, that 
all is and will be well with me ultimately, 
that my light a£Siction, which is but for a 
moment, is working out even for me an 
exceeding and eternal weight of glory — ^this 
carries me cheerfully on. And, as I do 
beUeve, my humble prayer 



)gl 



172 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



more and more, by the peaceable fruits of 
righteousness being formed in me, that so 
before I go hence and am no more seen, my 
Saviour may really be glorified in my body 
and spirit which are his, I am not only 
willing but thankful to suffer, because I 
believe that it is to make me a partaker of 
his holiness." 

In March, 1843, she wrote to Miss Mon- 
crieff in reference to a proposal that the 
sisters Elliott should again visit Scotland, 
and reside for a time with her near Dal- 
keith : — 

" If I remember rightly, you have a great 
love for beautiful scenery and the retirement 
of the country; and to you, therefore, the 
romantic and lovely views from the windows 
of that pretty Gothic house, and from the ex- 
tensive park of Dalkeith, must prove a daily 
and hourly delight How weU I remember 
the rocky hill, the brawling torrent, the wind- 
ing river, the rich foliage, vari^ted with 
autumn tints, on whidi the window of the 
pretty chamber assigned to me looked out, 
and how greatly must you all enjoy such a 
residence in the opening spring 1 Few earthly 
schemes could be more pleasurable to my be- 
loved Eleanor and myself, than to visit you 
and your dear brother in your present beau- 
tiful abode, and it mayy perhaps, be one of 
the enjoyments our heavenly Father may 
have in store for us, during some fiiture sum- 
mer, if our lives be prolonged. But at pre- 
sent our only desire and effort is not to look 
beyond the day, not to take any thought for 
the morrow — over which a shade of thick 
darkness hangs, — and never was the assotion 
more strictly veriSed, which is uwd as the 
aq;ument to inforce that injunction, * Suffi- 
cient tmto the day is the euU thereof.' I do 
not foi^t the goodness and mercy which 
haue followed us all our days ; and that for 
about half a century our family have been so 
distingushed and blessed above others as to 
be a wonder to many ; but I do feel that when 
two-thirds of Ufe have been passed under the 
wing and in the sweet society and in a grow- 
ing oneness with a most delighted parent, 
whose mind has been a fountain of intellec- 
tual and spiritual refreshment^ whose heart 
has been a well-spring of ever^owing kind- 
ness, sympathy, anid love, whose graces have 
beoune each ^ar more lovely and more mar 
ture, that fiom such a one to be parted for 
ever m this world, and to have, as it were, to 
b^^ life anew, when for us the sun is already 
low in the sky, and our day of life draws to- 
wards the evening — -from such a mother the 
parting is like severing a Umb from the body, 



and come what may hereafter, that ampu- 
tation can never cease to be felt." 

The years sped on ; and Charlotte Elliott 
lived much the same what to the world would 
have seemed a painful, m(mo.tonous life to 
live; her dreary, self-seduded winter time, 
relieved by a short summer run abroad or to 
some sweet country residence. Not seldom she 
was deemed to be near unto death, and de- 
spaired of, yet she recovered sufficiently to 
find pleasure in revising the Christian Re- 
membrancer Focket-Book, or doing similar 
work. Her brother Heniy, whom she had never 
dreamt to survive, dropped away before her, 
to be deeply mourned for, but not without 
hope. When her weakness made it impossi- 
ble for her any longer to attend the church, 
which she so dearly loved, she said to her 
sister : " My Bible is my church. It is always 
open„and there is my High Priest ever wait- 
ing to receive me. There I have my confes- 
sional, my thanksgiving, my psalms of praise,, 
a field of promises, and a congregation of 
whom the irorld is not worthy — ^prophets and 
apostles, and martyrs and confessors — in 
shor^ all I can want there I find." At the 
commencement of her eighty-first year she 
wrote : — 

"I feel that so great an age as mine 
requires three thmgs — great faith, great 
patience, and great peace. Come what may 
during the year upon which we have entered, 
I firmly believe that goodness and mercy, 
like two guardian angels, will follow us during 
every day, in every hour, in every varying cir- 
cumstance through which we may have to 
pass — ^in every time of trouble sustaining 
and comforting us — the angel of his presence 
keepng ever by our side, and whispering, 
' Fear not, for I am with thee ; be not dis- 
mayed, for I am thy God.* We may have to 
part for a short season with each other ; but 
He has promised never, never to leave us — 
never, never to forsake us." 

Her sister writes that— 

" The last manifestation of consciousness- 
was on the morning of her death, when, 
on her sister repeating to her their text for 
the day, ' Thine eyes shall see the King in 
his beauty, they shall behold the land that 
is very far off,' she clasped her hands toge- 
ther ; and as she raised ho' eyes to heaven, 
a b^m came over her countenance, which 
showed that she' fully entered into &e pre- 
clous words, and was realising the glorious 
vision she was so soon to behold. On the 
evening of that day, September 22 nd, at 
ten o'dock, without any apparent suffering, 
or the slightest struggle, sl^^^ell^^eep^ m | j 



8 



CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT. 



'73 



Jesus, so peacefully that it was difficult to 
fix the moment when the gentle breathing 
ceased." 

The facts and inadents wc have given 
will have sufficiently shown to our readers 
that Charlotte Elliott exhibited, in a high 
degree, the virtues of self-denial, patience, 
faith, love, and zeal forgood works. An invalid, 
almost always in pain, she was, notwithstand- 
ing, never idle. If in the last resort she had 
to realise, with Milton, that "they also serve 
who only stand and watt," she even th^ con- 
trived to make her work the sweeter for 
her song; and she never ceased to shed abroad 
a fragrance of joy, such as would attract the 
young to religion as few things will. Why 
should religion be gloomy ? The Christian, 
of all persons, should be cheerful — the dis- 
penser of solemn joy. Charlotte J^liott must 
be held forth in this light for a m<mient, else 
no justice were done to her. Never havewe 
come in contact with a more cheerful person. 
Far from narrow, prejudiced, or irritable, she 
is exactly the woman you would wish to be 
beside you dther in your happiest or your 
most sorrowful moments. She has the faculty 
of touching the most commonplace things 
with the glow of feeling and conviction ; she 
is always , richly experimental, and recom- 
mends her teaching by her character. What 
a f?esh,.pure, abounding delight she has in 
nature, too — ^in all ^ngs that are fair and 
of good report 1 There is not a querulous 
sentence in any one of those letters. The 
bulk of them were addressed to her friend, 
Miss Scott Moncrieflf, to a younger sister, and 
to her nephew, Mr. W. H. Elkott, a Bengal 
civilian. Is there not something of reproof 
tojnany of us— to our discontents, and com- 
plainings, and slu^sh ways of excusing our- 
selves in the lukewarm doing of our duty — 
when we find an old lady of eighty, who for 
years and ^ears had not had a day free from 
intense pam, writing thus?— 

"My sweet Mary,~The May is nearly out, 
and is filling the air with fragrance, and the 
lilacs and laburnums and hois&chestnut blos- 
soms beautify the lawn on every side j while 
the azaleas and riiododrndrDDB in the beds 
begin to look so gay and lovely that I say to 
myself every hour nearly, * O that Willie and 
Mary were here to enjoy them with us, surely 
there can be nothing more lovely ! ' . . . I 
think you have not the strength to come only 
for a day, and to us both it would be an ex- 
quisite pleasure to tell you viva voa on the 
spot how thoroughly we are enjoying our 
sojourn here, and how the lovely season seems 
to bring out fresh beauties every day. 



*' It was only yesterday that the interdict 
on my using my poor eye was removed, and 
it is ve^ weak and tearful still \ but my first 
use of it is to write this poor note to you, 
to tell you that I hardly believed it pos- 
sible that, at my age, and with all the infir- 
mities it brings, I could have derived such 
pure, unmixed delight from any earthly spot 
as X have felt here since the weather became 
fine: would that you had seen my Eleanor 
Jane, at past eleven last night, standing at 
your open window, fascinated by the scene, 
the full moon pouring a flood of radiance over 
the lawn, the shadows sleeping beneath, and 
all so deliciously quiet and lovely, that we 
felt it was ahnost a shame to go to bed and 
leave it , . . There seems no end of lovely 
scenery ; my only fear is that I should get 
too fond of it were I to be here long, so that 
it is very well that we shall not incur the 
danger. Never^ce I used to stay with my 
beloved Caroline in her grove at Hurow have 
I enjoyed nature in her spring loveliness so 
much as I have done here, nor have I ever 
heard such nightingales, thrushes, robins, &c., 
th^ all seem in an ecstasy , of happiness. 
Then we have peacefiil sheep and placid 
cows, and two nice little foals with their 
mothers to put life into the scene." 

And we cannot part from the more recent 
of these two books without giving our readers 
this other glimpse of the character of the 
author of "Just as I am : " — 

" I sometimes feel and fear that my faculties 
are so dwindling awa^ (now that I have 
crossed the boundary Ime set to mark and to 
limit the term of human life), that I have no 
power to write anything woilh the perusal of 
those I love \ and I have also come to feel 
that these aftecting words apply even to the 
effort of writing a letter, ' Yet is their strength 
but labour and sorrow ; ' so different is it now 
with me to what it once was, when letter, 
writing was a real pleasure, and I scarcely 
knew how to stop my pen. 

« * # * « 

" The text jrou gave me is a beautiful one, 
and I have taken the whole verse to write 
down in my po6ket-book as a memorial of 
you throughout the year. 'And therefore 
will the Lord wait, that He may be gracious 
unto you ; and therefore will He be exalted, 
that He may have mercy upon you, for the 
Lord is a God of judgment ; blessed are they 
that wait for Him.' There is a beautiful reci- 
procity in the mutual attitude of our God and 
our own souls, the one toward the otlier. He 
waiting to be gracious [5^fl5^ ig^^ej^ 



174 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



and we, waiting to be blessed and pardoned 
and comforted by Him." 

Such a simplicity and gracious sweetness 
are not often found in the aged apart irom 



Christian influence and belief— surely an- 
other proof, if that were needed, of its moral 
supremacy, and even of the divineness of its 
origin. 

E. CONDSR GRAY. 



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS SERMON. 



By the editor. 



" A NGELS, ever bright and fair," minister- 
ing spirits though they are, sent forth 
to mioister to the heirs of salvation, have 
seldom been sent to preach the gospel. It is 
not the outspread wings of angels, but the 
feet of men, that have usuaUy seemed so 
beautiful upon the mountains, bringing good 
tidings, publishing peace. And there is one 
thing obviously fitted to make men, at ordi- 
nary times, better messengers of God's grace 
than even the angels could be; Men can 
tell their fellows Utat they have themselves 
tasted the blessing whidti they offer to them, 
and found it infinitely precious. Just as a 
man bitten by a fiery serpent, who had looked 
on the serpent of brass, could u^e his suffer- 
ing neighbour to go and do likewise more 
persuasively than even Moses himself, so 
those who have used the balm of Gilea!d to 
the healing of their souls can speak of it with 
far more effect than could even an angel, 
to men full of wounds and bruises and 
putrefying sores. Our Lord, in the miracle 
of the loaves and fishes, did not give them 
with his own hands to the multitade, but first 
to the disciples, and they to the people. 
Hungiy though the people were, a feeling of 
awe might have kept them from eating, had 
not the food been handed to them by men of 
their own flesh and blood, who had eaten 
before them, and found it to be meat 
indeed. 

But there were a few great occasions on 
which the nile was broken, and angels 
became the preachers. These occasions 
were more than great — they were the grand- 
est ever known. The three most joyful words 
ever spoken on earth were spoken by angels, 
announcing three great facts in our Lord's 
history — Christ is bom, Christ is risen, 
Christ is coming again! It was meet 
that these truths should be made known 
by heavenly messengers; that they should 
in this way be surrounded with the glory 
of heaven, and associated with beings 
who stand habitually before the throne. 
Men were to be thus taught that these 
are truths of heavenly origin and heavenly 



bearing; fitted to lift them up far above 
the atmosphere of earth, far above all that 
is bom of the flesh; up to the region of 
purest bliss and honour, to the radiance 
and the fragrance of the paradise of 
God. 

But was there not a strange want of keep- 
ing between the preachers and the congrega- 
tion, especially when the first of the three 
words was nttered — this first Christmas ser- 
mon, as we may call it—" Unto you is bom 
.... a Saviour ? " No doubt, if heavenly 
preachers were like some of us, the angel 
who preached at Bethlehem would have 
been somewhat mortified both at the number 
and the quality oi his audience. To receive 
such a message as he had to deliver, it might 
have been bought that in the grandest 
temple in the world its highest princes and 
philosophers should be gathered, and that, 
rising to recaVe the ambassador of heaven, 
they should listen with bowed heads to the 
tidings borne to them by so august a mes- 
senger. But " my ways are not your ways, 
neither are your thoughts my thoughts, saith 
the Lord." The audience were a few lonely ! 
shepherds, watching their flocks by night, 
near a Hebrew village ; probably raw liuls, | 
not even the venerable old men of our fancy; I 
with soiled persons and well-worn garments J 
appropriate to so poor a calling. Yet surely, 
in the selection of such an audience, there , 
was a great significance. It foreshadowed 
that influence of the gospel by which the 
lonely are cheered and the dark enlightened, 
the poor enriched and the far-off brought 
nigh. It was the first of a series of gracious 
surprises that have been repeated since, in 
every age; like the surprise of the men taken 
from the highways and hedges to sit down at 
the nmriage-feost ; the surprise of the prodi- 
gal sop, when he felt his father's arms round 
his neck, and his warm kiss on his cheek ; 
the surprise of the woman who was a sinner, 
when she found a free forgiveness; the 
surprise of the leper, when Christ laid his 
hand on bis polluted person, and his flesh 
came back to him as the flesh o[ a little child. 



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS SERMON. 



'75 



It is a privily, with the return of the 
season, to sit under the angel's wings, and 
listen anew to the first Christmas sennon. But 
we do not need particular seasons to make 
the birth of Christ a welcome and seasonable 
subject. Do we not think of it far too little? 
Is it not true that while in every evangelical 
discourse the dmih of Christ is continually 
present, but little specific reference is made 
to his birth J God forbid that we should 
forget the one, but surely we may take more 
pains to remember the other. It was to the 
birth chteBy that the Old Testament saints 
looked forward; it was with the new-bom 
infant in his arms that Simeon felt his heart 
so fuil, and sung ,tfae JVufK dimUtis. It was 
the birth thaf first stirred the hearts of the 
early disciples — ** The Word was mjule flesh, 
and dwelt among us ; " and even St Paul, 
to whom more than any other it was given to 
know the mystery and meaning of the death, 
could not restrain his rapture when he 
thought of the human nature which our Lord 
assumed. "Without controversy, great is 
the mystery of godliness ; God was mani- 
fest in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, 
seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, 
believed on in the world, received up into 
glory." 

The truths in the first Christmas sermon 
are very simple yet very grand. There is 
a Saviour; that Saviour is bom; He is bom 
to you — such were the tidings of great joy to 
all people brought on that night by the 
angel ; and such evermore is " the ever- 
lasting gospel.*' 

I. There is a Saviour. The word is full 
and emphatic ; He is not merely a helper, or 
a healer, or a teadier, or a guide, or a friend, 
but a Saviour. If we were only weak, a 
helper would suffice ; if we were onl^ sick, 
a healer ; if only ignorant, a teacher ; if only 
out of the wajr, a guide ; if only forlom, a 
friend ; but Clmst is more— He is aSaidour; 
"Thou shalt call his name Jesus, for He 
shall save his people from their sins." It is 
a common enough feeling that we need 
something; it is not a common feehng that 
what we need is a Saviour. Natural religitm 
teaches us that we are imperfect and depend- 
ent creatures, and that we need something 
from God; but many recoil from the notion 
that what they, need is nothing less than 
a Saviour. Miist not this arise firom igno- 
rance of sin ? Do not men content them- 
selves with vague and slight impressions of 
that which has brought deaui into our wfuld 
with all our woe, and which, beyond all 
doubt, ever lends to drag us further down 



toward the r^on of all disorder and dark-; 
ness? If men everywhere would give but 
one eamest hour to probe and ponder sin, 
they would surely be more ready to welcome 
a Saviour. Are you not its slaves? Are 
you able to shake it off? Are you able 
to fashion your lives according to your 
own ideal? Does a sense of sin never 
humble you even before men ? What means 
that secret aversion to person!^ communion 
with God you feel so often, when you ought 
to pray, or to think of Him ? Can you, 
with undisturbed hearts, fancy God looking 
over your past life, setting your iniquities 
before Him, your secret sms in the light 
of his countenance? Only think of the day 
of judgment and the holy light in which 
everything will then be placed ; think of the 
holy angels, and the holy heaven where 
nothing shall dwell that is not absolutely 
pure ; and say whether that which you need 
to fit you for this is not indeed a Saviour, 
and whether, above all the words in the 
angel's sermon, you have not cause to wel- 
come the word which tells you that Christ is 
mighty to save? 

Or, turning your eyes outward, survey the 
.world, so fiill of disorder. Think of all hs 
disregard of GoA ; think of its dark tempta- 
tions and horrid seductions; its wars so 
brutal and barbarous; its fierce thirst for 
gain, breeding unnumbered wrongs and 
cruelties ; its slimy streams of lust, pouring 
pollution even where civilisation waves her 
fairest banners. Is all this, think you, to 
heal itself, or bum itself out, like a fire of 
faggots ? little prospect, truly, is there of 
such a consummation 1 What would remain 
for us but utterly to despair of our world, 
but for the announcement in the angel's 
sermon of tiie advent of a Saviour, and but 
for. that Saviour's own promise for the fixture, 
" Behold, I make all things new 1 " 

2. Hie Saviour announced is boTt. He 
comes into our world as one of our own race, 
a brother full of human tenderness, and in 
that capacity and relation He saves. He 
does not ofiier salvation in a tone of imperial 
condescension, like the almoner of some rich 
man that stands on a lof^ pedestal, and, 
clothed in all the insignia of high office, 
scatters the superfluities of a princely table. 
But He comes down, he draws near. He be- 
comes one of us, He is bom as we are bora, 
He is weak in the flesh as we are weak in the 
flesh, He is mortal as we are mortal, and yet 
He saves with a great salvation. It is no lordly 
stranger who comes among us, but who, how- 
ever kind, must for ever rebiain at^ameless^ \ 



176 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



distance from us; but "unto us a child is 
born, unto us a Son is given." 

Men are so constituted, that even a. 
little kindness done in a brotherly way is 
infinitely more touching than any amount 
of lordly condescension. Who is most 
likely to raise up the poor wretch that 
has sunk to the lowest depths of poUu- 
tiott — ^the well-meaning stranger, who conde- 
scends to take notice of him, and from the 
heights of his own respectability, calls on htm 
to change his degraded life, and become a 
new man? or the homely friend who sits 
down at his fireside, takes hold of his pol- 
luted hand, hears all his tale of temptation 
and guilt, is deeply vexed and grieved, but 
has for him a word of kind and Christian 
cheer, and not only points him upward, but 
goes with him on the way, clears the steps for 
him, and helps his tottering feet to climb ? 
And is not this the way of Christ and his salva- 
tion, only a poor faint image of it ? Into what 
an intimate relation to us has He come, and 
in how kind and brotherly a way does He help 
us ! If He was to become a man. He might 
have been created, like Adam, in the maturity 
of his strength ; but it was his will to know 
human nature at its weakest; to know all 
about it, to know all that is characteristic of 
the different stages of human life ; to be the 
child as well as the man. " When thou 
tookest upon thee to deliver man, thou didst 
not abhor the Virgin's womb." And thus, 
when we think of our Saviour, we think of a 
true brother— one who was familiar with the 
whole circle of human weakness, though with- 
out sin ; who to save us did not put forth the 
might of his divine nature merely, but strug- 
gle through all the feebleness and all the 
fears of humani^ ; struggled against opposi- 
tion, and desntion, and loneliness ; strug- 
gled on and stni^led through; went as 
a man into the fiery furnace ; went as a man 
into the dismal grave ; bore as a man all our 
sins ; but was, at the same time, " the mighty 
God, the everlasting Father, and the Prince 
of Peace." 

3. The angel pointed his sermon perso- 
nally — UtUo you is bom a Saviour. The offer 
is to all, but each must deal with it, for unless 
we actively accept it, we must be held to re- 
fuse. The offer is to all ; and if we consider 
that all are in rebellion against God, the 
divine generosity that appears in it is very 
wonderfrd. When was a rebellion against 
human authority followed by a universal offer 
of pardon ? Not after the fatal day of CuUo- 
den, as many a tradttbn of blood and ven- 



geance shows. Not after our Indian mutiny, 
conspicuous for mercy though the Viceroy 
was. Not after the North had subdued the 
South in America, and still less when in 
France the Commune was vanquished, and 
its crimes revelled. But here the offer is to 
all — " Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye 
to the waters." 

But then the offer must be dealt widi by 
men individually. The mere fact that a Sa- 
viour is born is not enough, else how could 
any of the Jews have died in their sins? 
There must be an acceptance of the offer, 3 
uniting of your life with Christ's, a receiving | 
of his grace, a surrender of your heart and ' 
life to Him. If hand grasp not hand, if heart I 
meet not with heart, if soul blend not 
with soul, all is in vain. Lay hold of this 
word of the angels, this "unto you," and 
let each translate it for himself, "loi/ii m 
a child is bom." To many, the incarnation 
only gave and gives the opportuniQr for re- 
jecting Christ ** He came unto his own, and ; 
his own received him not." That was enough : 
to shut tiiem out of hb kingdom. " But as ' 
many as received Him, to them He gave J 
power to become sons of God, even to them ' 
who believed on his name." Between this 1 
receiving and not receiving lies all the dif- I 
ference of salvation and penlition. It is the 
opportunity of receiving Christ anew that 
midces the celebration of his birth a privil^e, j 
— of getting a fresh hold of our Saviour-brother, ^ 
of feehng anew that we have an interest in [i 
Him and in his love, that having once | 
loved us, He will love us to the end, that , 
He has only gone before us to his Father's 
home to prepare a mansion for us, and that 1 
when He returns He will take us unto him- 1 
self, that where He is, there we may abo be, 

What are all the festivities of the season, ,| 
compared with this great privilege ? What 
are all our Christmas greetings, and gifts, and , 
feasts, it the one grand glory of Christmas be , 
wanting, if the one imspeakable gift has never 
been heartily received, and is not received 
anew ? What if no vital influences from Christ 
have been admitted into our hearts — ^no holi- 
ness, no charity, no uprightness ? What if 
Christ passes by \x%, on his way to glory, and 
we, instead of following Him, go hobbling 
along in another direction? What can it ' 
then avail us that Christ was bom, or that the 
angel proclaimed his birth ? Let no man . 
droim that he knows the true joy of Christ- 'i 
mas, unless he can say with his heart, " Unto 
ffitfwas this day bom a Saviour, who is Christ 
the Lord." 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



177 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 

By THE AUTHOR OF "Robbet Holt's Illusion," etc. 



CHAPTER rv. 




s o ra e- 
thing of 
satisfac- 
tion the 



p o s s 1- 
bility of 
a friend. 

The desire of her life for years past had been 
for a friend who should be older and wiser 
-and more cultured than herself, above her in 
every way. If he, or she, were also good, 
not only in a moral, but in a spiritual sense, 
so much the better. 

It was not wonderful, then, that a man 
coming so near to her standard as the Rector 
did should be a welcome visitor in tlie room 
over the druggist's shop ; and the more fre- 
quent his visits became, the more keenly Jane 
learnt to.appreciate them. Life was no more 
so lonely and iriste as it had been. The 
days when he came had a warmth and colour 
of their own. It seemed to her that her 
mind and brain had lain partially dormant 
before. Even her troubles grew lighter. She 
thought they might grow lighter still if she 
could tell them to him ; but she could not do 
that, at any rate, not yet awhile. Meantime 
his coming and going were the grand events 
of her lonely unwitnessed life. 

And this being so, how should he not dis- 
cover it? As I have said before, he was a 
man of quick perception ; and his perceptions 
in all things concerning Jane Francis were 
rapidly and strangely intensified. He noted 
things that he hardly dared to understand — 
things that moved him at one time to thrills 
of ineffable pleasure, at another to pangs of 

IV. NS. 



strife and pain and self-reproach. I^ot the 
slightest change in her escaped him. Her 
more frequent smile, her softer and less 
abrupt mode of speech, the look of appealing 
confidence that he saw occasionally in her 
eyes — all these things added to the struggle 
that was going on within him. 

On one point only he failed to influence 
her as he could have wished ; she would not 
consent to undertake any definite work 
amongst the poor. "Not at present," she 
said gravely. She did not give her reason ; 
but her eyes drooped as she spoke, and as 
she turned away her face there was an ex- 
pression of pain on it. The Rector was 
silenced and saddened for the moment. 
Surely there could have been no mystery in 
her life? He put away the thought as an 
insult to her ; and made reparation by re- 
membering things that had come to his know- 
ledge unsuspected by her. If she would not 
undertake definite work, he knew for certain 
that she was working indefinitely, and work- 
ing in the bravest wa^. Her medical and 
i sanitary knowledge, which was considerable, 
I had done good service among the sickly in- 
' habitants of Quant's Yard ; he had heard her 
advice and opinions quoted not seldom of 
late, and that she had watched all night by 
the sick and the dying he had learnt with 
something of surprise. Jane never alluded 
in any way to these facts, but the Rector 
pondered over them not a little. Doubtless 
certain changes in her were owing to his in- 
fluence. Was it unnatural under the circum- 
stances that he should, consciously or un- 
consciously, take credit for them all ? or if 
he took it in a way that was something more 
than flattering? 

But his visits were not all on Jane's ac- 
count He spent quite as mucli time in 
Nathan Dale's workroom as he spent in the 
room over the shop. And Nathan had learnt 
to look forward to his coming with a pleasure 
not altogether unlike that of his niece. It 
was not now only a sympathetic and culti- 
vated listener who came; the Rector ventured 
to talk as well as to listen, and none but him- 
self knew with what unlooked-for response. 

The spring was verging into summer now. 
The Rector was at home in his parish, and 
had overcome the chief difficulties connected 
with its working. He still worked hard him- 
self — hard and conscientiously. His old love 
of humanity had received a little special em- , > 

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phasis, but this did not interfere vith its 
general scope. 

A coincidence happened to him on one of 
these summer* days, one of those curious little 
accords between the outer and the inner life 
that occur so often. He was coming up 
from Turner's Garth, leaving fever, and 
wretchedness and widcedness behind him, 
and hastening out to the sunshine and freer 
air of AVhingate. He had just heard, some- 
what to his distress, that Jane Francis had 
been in Turner's Garth all night. It was not 
right, not safe, not prudent. Did her uncle 
know? he wondered. Should he call? What 
a curious thing it was that he had never )-et 
met her cither in the street, or in any house 
save her own home ! 

A minute later, and Jane Francis was 

gassing the short-sighted Kector with a slight 
ow. It was not too late. He stopped, told 
her what he had heard, and besou^t her to 
be careful He turned to accompany her a 
little way, but he could not say all he wanted 
to say in the street. He would call on the 
moiTow. Jane glanced up with visible grati- 
fication, which the Rector perceived with a 
warm thrill, and an unusually bright smile; 
neither for a moment dreaming that this mute 
responsiveness was being noticed and in- 
stantly comprehended by Mrs. Rushbrooke. 
Jane had seen the little woman approaching 
with her two overpowering daughters; the 
Rector did not, as usual, see them until they 
were quite close. He stopped, exclaimed 
with surprise, and Jane was gliding away with 
another bow, when she perceived that the 
Rector was introdudng somebody in his 
pleasant manner. It was her own name that 
she heard, and one Miss Rushbrooke was 
bowing to her distantly, and one was glancing 
sideways, and Mrs. Rushbrooke was frowning 
disapprovingly. They had seen the quaint 
little figure at church, and Mrs. Rushbrooke 
had learnt something from Hallett, her maid, 
of Miss Francis, and the Rector's visits to the 
druggist's shop; but she had never dreamt 
that this little creature with llie shabbpr jacket, 
and staring eyes, and great white rorehead, 
was Miss Francis. The Miss Rushbrookes 
stood silent as usual, Mrs. Rushbrooke talked 
to her brother, Jane stood for one uncom- 
fortable surprised minute by Mr. Harcourt's 
side, and then, with a dignified "good 
morning," that met with barely perceptible 
response, except from him, she turned away. 
I believe that the strongest feeling of all in 
her heart was astonishment. She had seen 
these people, the Rector's sister and nieces, 
before ; and likirg him so much, she had, 



naturally enough, invested them with likeable 
qualities. The disappointment haunted her 
all day ; and it seemed to her that she was 
more sorry for their sakes than for her own. 

And Mr. Harcourt was sorry too, but sorry 
only for Jane. With his sister and nieces he 
was indign^t ; and it was not in him to keep 
such indigtmtion quite to himseUl Yet it was 
difficult fox him to express exacdy what he 
felt, indeei| it was di^cult for him to intro- 
duce the sfibject at .^ll. He had never men- 
tioned Jan^ name to any one. Once or 
twice wh^n His heart and brain had seemed 
suffused, as. itjjffere, with her presence, when 
her elo(^nt*eyes and face had troubled him, 
and her voice h^ lingered sympathetically on 
his ear, more than once at sudi times he 
had yearned aJmost painfully to speak^of her ■, 
to some 9ne; but there had 1)een nc^ one' 
near him Uf whom he could 304,speak,]fven 
indiffereniiu without a sen^ of betraying 
both himleJf and Jane. Htf^M^ never tried 
to account for this reticence, nor for the 
reverent, tender dislike he had to hearing 
even her name spoken by the ruder lips cf 
others ; but it seemed to him that this dislike 
was stronger than ever when Mrs. Rushbrooke 
asked abruptly, and not without effort— 

"Where on earth did you pick up that 
odd-looking little creature you were talking 
to to-day, Wilmot?" 

" I suppose you mean Miss FVands?* he 
replied quietly. 

" Yes, I think you said that was her name. 
Whatever made you dream of introducing 
her?" 

" I rather wanted you to know her. It did 
not occur to me that she would have anything 
to fear, either fi^m your rudeness or that of 
your daughters," said the Rector, speaking a 
great desd more sententiously than was bis 
wont Then he paused awhile, and added 
with emphasis, " And I may as well explain 
to you, that in future I shall consider any 
discourtesy shown to her as intended equally 
for myself." 

Mrs. Rushbrooke moved in her chair un- 
easily. This was even wwse than she had 
feared. But she was not wanting. . 

" Rudeness 1" she exclaimed, with a kind 
of odd animated asperity. "I don't know 
what you mean by rudeness in this instance- 
You didn't expect mi to make a fanaili^ 
friend of her on the spot, / ^/e. 
strikes me it would take a good deal of what 
you call rudeness, or something like iti ^ 
keep so much self-assurance as that in its 
place." 

" Miss Francis is scJlfra«suredr tlv ^ef^S'|l 



FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



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replied. " It is a trait of her character that 
I admire immensely.-' 

"Oh, indeed! I should say yoa stand 
alone in your admiration." 

" Perhaps. I • am not afraid of standing 
alone — in that or in anjthing else." 

" You don't really mean to say that you 
admire self-assiutmce in a woman ?" asked 
Elinor languidly from the sofa. 

'•Yes, I do. A character wanting that 
usually wants some other very important 
elements. I don't mean to say that I admire 
an exaggerated form of it, nor when it leads 
to di^lay, nor to flippanqr, nor to any other 
undesirable thing. But I must own I ^iok 
it a most pitiaue thing to see women, or 
men either, wanting self-confidence enough 
to carry them |»iinlessly through the most 
ordinaiy duties of life." 

Jane Francis was gradually lost sight of in 
the conversation, much to the Rector's satis- 
faction. Yet he was a little unhappy that 
night and restless. This difficulty was not as 
other difficulties, something to be met with a 
little laughter and a good deal of resolution. 
It involved others, and others who did not 
look at things from the same point of view 
as he did. He had been a long time making 
up his mind— it was not yet made up-^but 
he knew that when once he had decided, no 
human consideration would torn him from 
his dednon. And ttia latter fact his sister 
knew likewise, and the knowledge did not 
tend to her peace <^ mind. 

CHAPTER V. 

On the afternoon of the following day 
Jane was in her own room, a room mean and 
shabby like the rest of the house, carpetless 
and curtainless. And it was not even tidy — 
tidiness was all but impossible, seeing that it 
was crowded with books from the one end to 
the other, and that there was no book-shelves. 
Books were piled on the floor on either side 
of the bed, books were piled on the chiurs 
and on the drawers, the drawers were for the 
roost part filled witii books, and a large old- 
fashioned dtning-teble that stood by tiie win- 
dow, where the dressing-table should have 
been, was filled with books, pamphlets, 
and magazines of all descriptions. There 
was no method in Jane's mania for books. 
The literature of every age was represented 
in some form or other. And all manner of 
subjects, all shades of opinion claimed her 
attention by turn. ■ Presently there was a 
knock at the door. "The Rector," she said 
to herself, with a smile of pleasure, laying 
down her book and hastening to admit fami. 



As I have said, Jane had no colour in her 
face, but her lips were tinged quite brilliantly. 
I h^^y know what made them white on the 
sudden as she opened the door, whether 
it was disappointment, or annoyance, or a 
foolish indefinable fear. It was not the Rector 
who stood on the rickety wooden galleiy, 
but three fine ladies, in. sweeping silks and 
soft lace, and with brilliant colours mingling, 
and blending, and making each figure seem 
part of the other. Mrs. Rushbrooke had 
caught the trick of the Rector's smile. She 
was saying quite pleasantly— 

" How do you do, Miss Francis ? We were 
in the neighbourhood, so we thought we 
would call — not inopportonely, I hope.** 

And the Miss Rushbrookes were behind, 
making attempts to smile, though apparratly 
as much to each other as to Jane. Th^e 
was no alternative. Ja&e could only bow 
and ask them to come in, her cheeks burning 
as she led the way, her breath coming quickly, 
her hands rigidly clasped. Yet nothing of 
her ordinary, or radier extraordinary, dignity 
was wanting. Her nature was one of those 
in whom an of nervousness, more surely 
than anything else, produces the cool, calm, 
deliberate movements of self^onfidence. This 
it was that made her such a puzzle to sdme 
people. She was well enough aware that her 
temperament was one needmg selPconCrol at 
times, and when the times came she exag- 
gerated the necessity, becoming, apparently, a 
very model of selPa^urance and coUectedness. 

But to-day Mrs. Rushbrooke's fluent tongue 
was a great aid to her. 

" And how is your uncle ? " she began as 
soon as she was fairly seated, and had made 
a mental inventory of the shabby furniture. 
" He is a dear old man — quite a character. 
I have come to the shop for things ever so 
many times for the sake of having a chat 
with him. So quaint, isn't he? Quite a 
^ical Yoik^ireman ! Have you lived with 
him long ?'* 

*' Yes ; since before I can remember." 

Jane spoke with unusual hauteur. She 
was not aware that she did so; but Mrs. 
Rushbrooke's familiarity of voice and manner 
were distressing beyond measure to her. 

"Really!" continued the little woman in 
the same tones. " It must have been an odd 
kind of life for you. Weren't your parents 
living, and didn't you go to school?" 

Jane answered both questicms in the nega- j 
tive. Mrs. Rushbrooke almost shrieked her . 
surprise. 

" Never went to school I Then b 
earth were you educated ?** Digitized by 



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" I hare never had any education/ replied 
Jane in her quietest tones, and looking with 
grave eyes at Mrs. Rushbrooke. 

" You have — never — had any?" 

"No." 

Tlie Miss Rushbrookes blushed a little for 
Jane, who apparently had not sufficient sen- 
sitiveness to blush for herself. 

"Can't you read?" asked Cecilia with 
languid amazement 

" Yes, I can read," replied Jane, without 
even the shadow of a smile. 

"And write?" asked Elinor. 

"Only very badly," 

" Dear, dear !" said Mrs. Rushbrooke. " I 
blame your uncle very much indeed; and " 

" Pardon me," interrupted Jane, with em- 
phatic lips and eyes that sparkled a little. 
*' Pardon me, no blame attaches to my unde. 
I was penniless, and he was poor. He has 
taught me what he knew himself— or, at any 
rate, as much of it perhaps as I am capable 
of taking in." 

" Oh, well ; I didn't know," said Mrs. Rush- 
brooke apologetically; adding in the same 
breath, " Your name isn't the same as your 
unde's. Isupposeyourmotherwashissister?" 

" Yes ; his only sister." 

" And what was your father ?" 

"A surgeon." 

"Oh, indeed ! In Sedgeborough?" 

" No ; in York," replied Jane, making 
extra efforts to keep quite calm. 

" Really!" Then Mrs. Rushbrooke paused 
awhile. 

" It's quite a pity about your education," 
she resumed, presently. " But you are only 
young. Couldn't you set to wotk now and 
learn something ?" 

"I dare say 1 might." 

" Certainly you might, and we can lend 
you some books.' I fancy I still have some 
of my daughters' lesson-books. I'll have a 
turn out some wet day, and see what we 
can find. And do let me persuade you to 
begin trying to improve yourself a little," 
begged Mrs. Rushbrooke, with affectionate 
patronage. She could afford to be affection- 
ate now. What a fool she had been I She 
might go away quite happy at once. Her 
brother, the Rev. Wiimot Haicourt, Rector 
of Sedgeborough, marry a girl who would 
probably have to make a mark instead of 
signing her name in the register I She would 
never again be so ready to distress herself 
about impossibilities. AU this was running 
in her mind as she begged Jane to begin to 
improve herself. 

" It seems to me there are so many reasons 



why you should," she went on. " For in- 
stance, your uncle is an old man, and you 
say he is poor : what would become of you if 
he were to die do you think ?" 

Again the sudden white came to Jane's lips, 
but Mrs. Rushbrooke did not perceive it. 

" My uncle intends that I shall go abroad, 
I believe. AVe have friends both in France 
and Switzerland." 

"Oh, indeed 1" eaid Mrs. Rushbrooke, 
yet more relieved. ** Still that is no reason 
why you shouldn't take my advice. Quite 
the contrary. Why, you ought to know 
something of French if you are intending to 
go on the Continent" 

Jane did not reply. It had struck her 
some time before that perhaps she was cauy- 
ing matters a little too far. Remembering a 
certain pile of French classics that stood on 
the floor of her bedroom, Jane said nothing of 
her willingness to learn the language in which 
tiiey were written. 

"And now we must be ^oing, my dears," 
Mis. Rushbrooke said, tummg to her daugh- 
ters. " We decided to go to the Manor, you 
know. The carriage was ordered for tluee." 

Of course the Miss Rushbrookes knew, 
but Jane did not; and it might be that the 
information had an effect upon her different 
from any intended by Mrs. Rushbrooke. It 
was not a visible effect Jane did not start, nor 
blush, nor give any outward sign of the sudden 
pertiu-bation that was disquieting her heart 
For after all, though no mention has been 
made of the fact, Jane Francis had a heart 

" We shall come and see you again," Mrs. 
Rushbrooke said^ actually shaking hands with 
Jane. " And I dare say Mr. Harcourt will 
be coming to see your unde again aom. He 
went up to town this morning, quite unex- 
pectedly, to see a friend who is very ill. He 
will return to-morrow, I dare say. Good- 
bye. I won't forget the books." 

There were great powers both of love and 
of friendship in the frail, half-weary looking 
little woman who was left standing in the 
cheerless, lonely room. She had besn in- 
dined to quarrel with its loneliness occasion- 
ally — not often ; but she thought she could 
never be so indined again. Would it be 
like this after?— if that after ever came. 
Would the human world of what was called 
sodety be as disappointing on a fuller viev 
as it yras in such glimpses as these ? Perhaps 
it would ; but she would be independent of 
it then, or, at any rate, not dependent for 
any necessary satis&ction or happiness. Jane's 
life was a life that was rapidly losing all con- 
sciousness of a presei^^t^n^^ GoOgI 



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FOR PITY'S SAKE. 



CHAPTER Vr. 

The postman's knock was so rare a thing 
on the wooden gallery, that Jane Frands 
might be excused for a little fluttering of 
heart when she heard it. But she behaved 
strangely with the letter. It was addressed 
to her — addressed in a masculine and most 
illegible handwriting, yet clearly the band- 
writing of a man of culture. She tnraed it 
over in her hands, smiled with whitening 
lips, smiled again with dieeks and lips 
of burning crimson; then laid it unopened 
on the table, and went on with her knitting, 
her fingers flying as though she did but pre- 
tend to knit 

Half an hoiu* later she took the letter in 
her hand again. This time she opened it, 
and began to read. It would have been 
barely decipherable to any one unaccustomed 
to the hantlwriting; but Jane was not un- 
accustomed. As she read her cheeks paled 
to even more than their wonted paleness; 
and when she had finished reading she went 
to her own room, and threw herself on the 
floor, sobbing, stifling her sobs, aying silently, 
passionately, I bad almost said hopelessly, 
but she was by no means without hope. 

It was two hours after this when the 
Rector called. He was less radiant than 
usual, and as he sat down opposite to Jane, 
no radiance whatever was visible in him. He 
stopped speaking somewhat suddenly, then 
he raised his eyeglass, which was an unusual 
thing for him to do when he was not reading, 
but he took it off again almost immediately, 
and sat for a moment with silent lips and 
thoughtful face, looking out of the window. 

*' Miss Francis, what has happened he 
asked, at last, with an emotion tluit surprised 
Jane a little. She raised her swollen eyelids, 
looked at him with heavy eyes, and said, — 

" Nothing has happened — that is, nothing 
that I can tell any one!" 

This was not encouraging. There was 
another* pause ; not a painless one for Mr. 
Harcourt. Jane's face seemed to grow thinner 
even while he watched her ; and her languid 
manner, her leaden eyes, her folded, lisUess 
hands, seemed to him to betray untold 
depths of sorrow in one so little given to 
such betrayals. It was not the first time 
that he bad suspected trouble somewhere in 
the backgroond of her life, but it could 
hardly be said to be in the- background now. 
The yearning to know something about it 
was growing in him painfully. If he might 
only know the nature of it, he would ask 
nodiing more, not yet at any rate, — 



" I don't want you to tell me anything 
that you would rather not tell," he said, 
speaking again with effort ; '* but I have 
hoped for some time that you looked upon 
me as a friend, and ' friend ' is a word that I 
never use lightly, not even in my own thought. 
It means a great deal to me. Will you tell 
me what it means to 3rou ? " 

"That I could never do," said Jane 
emphatically, her eyes brightening as she 
spoke, her whole frame seeming to recover 
tension. " I think sometimes it means too 
much to be used in this world at all." 

The Rector smiled. "I hardly think 
friendship will be the necessary thing in 
another world that it often is in this," he said 
quietly. " But as you say, this scarcely 
seems the place for its full development. 
One man needs a friend, and cannot find 
one though he spend his life in the search. 
Another needing friendship more uigently, re- 
fuses it though it stands knocking at his door." 

Jane considered a moment — 

** You are misunderstanding me," she said, 
with more ease and deliberation than Mr. 
Harcourt cared to see. " I do not refuse 
friendship ; but it has come in my way so 
seldom that I hardly know how to accept it. 
I have never yet dared to think of you un- 
reservedly as ray friend, but I have been 
hoping for the time when I should dare." 
Then Jane smiled and added, " If it is to be 
no more a question of * hoping,' I can only 
say that my gratitude ought to be greater 
now than it probably would have been at a 
future time." 

" I don't understand you," Mr, Harcourt 
said ; *' but I don't want you either to fed or 
to express gratitude." 

Then he stopped. His last sentence had 
been said slowly, emphatically, and in a 
manner as if it were but the prelude to some 
sentence more emphatic still. But he had 
not been quite prepared to say the thing that 
was trembling on his lips. It hung there 
unsaid while his thoughts took rapid, puzzled, 
painful flight. What of the world? Much 
at this moment. What of his sister? Yet 
more ; awe of her, and love for her made the 
conmionplace little woman's opposition loom 
like a difficulty of insuperable magnitude. 
Yet, after all, was it insuperable ? Was he 
not his own master?. And again, was it 
possible now that he should think only of 
himself? Had he not gone too &r to be 
able to say honourably, " 1 will go no further? " 
He was compelled, as it were, to these cal- 
culations. It seemed to him not himself 

who made them, but some being h^Lt^uIaod^ 

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antagonistic to himself. His own desire was 
for a breathless, impulsive outpouriDg of his 
deep affection — an outpouring that would be 
only too easy if once begun. But the be- 
ginning was not easy. His other self held 
him back, striving for a mastery which it 
might or might not attain. 

The silence was puzzling to Jane. By 
some Strang intuitive power she bad become 
aware thaX it was not an (ndinaxy »lence — 
that it was pregnant with meaning not to be 
understood, if possible to be misunderstood. 
She lelt a certain sudden fear, a tremulous 
tension of every faculty she possessed. When 
Mr. Harcourt spoke again his voice vibrated 
through her, leaving her hardly strength 
enough to reply. 

" It is not gratitude I want you to feel," 
he began, in tones low with suppressed 
emotion. 

" But it is gratitude I do feel," Jane inter- 
rupted, in a cold, rigid manner not at all 
suited to the words. 

Mr. Harcourt bent down a little nearer to 
her. The movement was rapid and peculiar, 
and gave the impression of comfdete, abso- 
lute, but impulsive self-surrender. 

" Can you feel nothing more for roe than 
that — nothing deeper?" he sud, his lips 
qnivoing painfully while he spoke, his voice 
broken and subdued, his whole being instinct 
with hope and yearning. 

i think it was pain that lent power and 
perception to Jane at that critical moment. 
It seemed to her that it was Mr. Harcourt's 
manner more than his words that betrayed 
his actual meaning. The words were capable 
of misconstruction — they could be made espe- 
cially capable of it by a little self-sacrifice. 
Not a little though. It could only be at 
great cost that she omld betray herself just 
now ; but she would not count ue cost. 

She drew herself up in her chair a little, 
leaning carelessly back, with an amused, 
interested smile, looking at the Rector, haif- 
critically, half-wonderingly — 

" How very good you are ! " she said 
slowly, looking steadily into his eyes. " Do 
you know, I think you will raise my faith in 
all humanity. I have hardly believed that 
purely disinterested kindness was possible in 
this world." 

" But I am not disinta%sted," interrupted 
the Rector, with heightened colour and sur- 
prised look. 

No ; and your interest ts about the most 
incomprehensible thing of ah — ^tbere is so 
littie to account for it. You asked me just 
now if I felt nothing more than gratitude ? 



Certainly I do, a great deal more. What U 
it that one feels toward people that is no: 
affection, and yet is so very like it? It is 
something so much better than affection. It 
gives all the pleasure and none of the pain. 
I think that actual love — the one great iove 
that is possible in most people's lives, is 
made up of at least one half of pain. I 
suppose that heightens the other half, and 
gives the uncertainty, and inquietude, and all 
the other undesirable things that go to make 
up the sum total of intensity. Can you 
understand me? But that is not a 
question. If you dcm't now, you most likely 
will at some fitture time. I hope it won't be 
such a miserable time for you as it is me." 
Then Jane paused, and a look of pain came 
to her face. " I am so unhappy," she said 
presently, passing her hand over her fore- 
head, and speaking in simple, almost childish 
tones. 

" I feared you were," Mr. Harcourt replied. 
He had nothing more to say. What was 
behind could henceforward be said only to 
himself. 

" I ought to tell you all abont it," Jane 
went on, not unmindful of a certain pal^ 
quiet gramdeur that was coming over the face 
before her. " It would be a relief to me 
to tell you, but I cannot yet. It is some- 
thing, though, to know that I may tell you 
when I can. You don't know what it is to 
live your life with no one near you caring to 
know anything about it It is like being 
always hungry, and seeing food that you 
cannot reach. After a tipie the grapes seen) 
sour, and at last one doesn't care to put out 
one's hand if they are held within reach ever 
so temptingly." 

" But you have put out your hand to-day," 
the Rector said, with a smile that required 
efiforL 

" Yes. This will be a white day to re- 
member." 

Jane regretted the words as soon as they 
were said. She had not meant to say tiiem 
then, but they had fitted into her merciful 
little design, and she had not remembered 
how inappropriate they would seem when 
viewed from another point She was full of 
pain and pity. Her life had been almost all 
made up of dreams, and suggestions, ftpd 
things made half possible only to become quite 
impossible ; but here was a starthng reality* 
quite unlike any dream. More had been 
desired of her than she could give, and so 
she had to seem to give nothing ; and there 
was mors of present pfUn in such seeming 
than Mr. Harcourt could know. /Yct,_asshe 
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FOR pirrs SAKE. isa 



had said, she was more than grateful to the 
man whose soul she was troubling. He was 
not distresnng her with afiy show of his 
trouble. He remained a little longer, talking 
I naturally, if more quietly than usual; and 
then he went away, taking with him the 
current number of the Remtedes DeuxMondes^ 
which Jane bad lent to him. Her name was 
written on the cover. It had only been put 
there by the bookseller, yet vt gave, him a 
j carious thrill of pain as he went up the 
I street. That strange unknown other self had 
] ceased to trouble Mm now— it did not even 
comfort him by accepting wljatfaadhappened 
as relief. Yet he bore his sorrow ve^ 
stoically as far as appearaoccs went . His 
colour came back, his face prew t^ght again, 
and his smile became as xadiant aoid perastent 
as it had ever been in his life; If there was 
any change in him at all it was in his manner 
of speaking, and it Was not a striking change \ 
no one noticed that the tones of his voice 
were quieter and more resolute save Jane 
Francis. But there was nothing- in it sug- 
gestive of sadness: hor of anything to which 
she could give a ^in*- 

CHAPTER VI r. 

The wet day that Mrs. Rushbrooke had 
desired came at last.' A pile of books, with 
Mangnall's "Questions'* at the top ujd.a 
French grammar at the bottom, was laid 
ready to take down to (giant's Yard and 
then Mrs. Rushbrooke sauntered into the 
study, doubting a little as she went whether 
she should acquaint her brother with her 
intentions or-iiot. ■ "^he was perfectly ^tisfipd 
with these same intentions, and there*^as no 
reason why she sbottl^HDt be. .She was quite 
capable of disinterestedness under . certain 
conditions, and she had no motive whatever 
for desiring Jane's improvement save Jane's 
own good. St^Ushe had doubts as to whether 
her brother ww&hqaifove of her interference; 
and perhapkdeep dSwn^ m>4i,er heart there 
were some ^V^h^^bts not yef^nte. satis- 

She had expected to find the Rector in his 
study, but he was not there. The window 
was open, rose-sprays were waving about 
glittering with the late rain, the sun was 
lighting up the gilt lettering on the smart 
modern bindings of the books. They were 
beautifully arranged, and the arrangement 
was seldom disturbed. 'On the writing-table 
there were piles of tracts and cheap Bibles 
and Prayer-Books, and on the other side 
some thin pamphlets. All these were quite 
familiar; but there was something lying 

==^, 



between that caught Mrs. Rushbrooke's atten- 
tion, and chained it there for several minutes. 
She did not go down to Quit's Yard that 
afVernoon ; nevertheless, Jane Francis was not 
foigotten;, quite otherwise, — Mrs. Rushbrooke 
could not put away the thought of her when 
she wished to do so. Her brother came in, 
cheerful, chatty as usual; went out again, 
came in, dined, and sauntered out into the 
garden. Was it possible that she could have 
anything so terrible^ fear concerning him ? 
Was it possible ttvepiain any longer in 
patient ignorance THiStkW^ ^'^'^ "8***^ 
should so remain. Forvher children's sake, 
even more than for her Dwn, it was her duty 
to find out whether anything might yet be 
dpne, or, at any rate, wh»ther there was need 
to do anything. 

She stutled the Rector, coming softly 
behind him with a thick, grey-covered maga- 
iine in her handt He compi;ehended the 
matter instMit^ Was sh9.£omg to be tear- 
ful? he wondered, withricft^tUe sense of 
something almost unchristian enough to be 
enjojonent But Mrs^ Rushbp^qjce was not a 
woman to shed tears befc^tg^^Lr^t moment. 
■She carried the reviefT ^^K^^^jj^efore her, 
pointed silently to the name wr^fm on the 
%over, then asked with pa^^p^eyes and 
voice — ^ 
" Wilmot, what do& this mem^," 
With great detibenition the W^bst adjusted 
his eye-glass,^^t forward, a«d read in dis- 
tinct tories — , ^; 
** Miss frahtis:* -k 
Mrs. Ru^brooke loqjced at hipiifWith eyes 
full of eloquent reproacfiir.^ ■ 

" Does it belong to her1ffehe.,jisked, still 
speaking pathetie^ly. 'mi 
"Yes. She kjrtit to me.'V 
*' She lent it » you?" i4 ■' 
"Yes. Does it strike you as wt^nderful?'* 
Certainly his-' %afttiher was irritt^ting. Mrs. 
Rushbrooke paused a moment, a tide of hot 
colour came to her face, and ^ere was con- 
siderable emphasis in the manner In which 
4he oSending review touched the grass at 
some yards distance. 

" I call it deceitful, I call it untrue, I call 
it base. She told me she couldn't read Eng- 
lish, much less French. If she will tell one 
untruth she will tell another. But what could 
one expect ? Hypocritical little wretch I And 
you " 

"My dear Amelia, stop a moment, will 
you ?" the Rector interrupted coolly. " Miss 
Francis did not tell you that she could not 
read — she told you nothing but the truth ; 
and if she told it in a manner lik^ to mis-. 
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1 84 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



lead, I make no doubt that she was not alone 
to blame, though she blamed herself after- 
ward. But we will drop the subject, please," 
he concluded, turning to pick up the review 
with a certain show of exceeding care. 

'* Wilmot, I can't drop it," the poor little 
woman said, once more becoming pathetic. 
" I can't drop it till I know more about it. 



You must tell me. You must forgive me. I 
never meant to speak as I have spoken." 

" I hope not," Mr. Harcourt said gravely. 

"And there was no need for it?" Mrs. 
Rushbrooke hazarded. 

" Not the slightest." 

This was comforting. After 3 moment's 
pause she continued in timid tones — 




P«E*> 179. 



*' And you don't care for Miss Francis — 
that is, not in any especial M-ay?" 

The Rector turned slowly, faced his sister 
with a look that was sad, and true, and con- 
temptuous, and said with deliberation — 

*' I do care for Miss Francis, I do care for 
her in an especial way, I care more for her 
than for any woman 1 have ever seen. Will 
that content you ? And once more, will you 
obhge me by not talking of her ?" 



Would that content her ? Would she ever 
know contentment again ? Mr. Harcourt went 
in-doors and shut himself and his slowly- 
dying pain in his study, and his sister dared 
not follow him. They seemed to have 
changed places. She had suddenly become 
afraid of her own brother, and all through 
the deceitful, ignorant little creature who by 
some unknown arts had succeeded in per- 
suading him that he was in love with her. 



FOR PITY*S SAKE. 



It was preposterous, and not to be borne. 
There were so many reasons why it could not 
be borne — reasons mature and immature. She 
could not explain to him the terrible stum- 
bling-stone that he might be throwing in the 
path of her dear girls, because that padi was 
not yet quite clear to herself, except by 
means of such clearness as might be thrown 
upon it by the light of hope. Yet unques- 
tionably it would be a grievous matter, for 
them and for herself, if her brother should 
carry this foolish and wicked fancy to its 
natural end. And that he was intending so 
to carry it she had no doubt whatever now. 
What was to be done ? It was impossible 
not to do anything. Quiescence was beyond 
human power, especially was it beyond the 
power of humanity that had worked its feel- 
ings &p to a state of ang^ and alarm. I^e 
might not appeal to her brother, he had 
refiised to hear her ; but there was some one 
else who might be made to hear. If she 
could do nothing else, she could find relief in 
explaining to Jane Francis her views of the 
past, the present, and the future. 

Hurrying into the house, throwing on her 
bonnet, rushing along the lane, and down 
the sleepy street into Quant's Yard, the 
tumult of feeling within her seemed to rise 
with every step. Fortunately for her, Jane 
was quite alone, sitting in the narrow bare 
room, a little softened, a little thoughtful, as 
she was apt to be in the twilight. Poor Jane, 
I believe she was glad to see even Mrs. Rush- 
brooke, though it did not escape her ihat the 
lady's greeting was uttered in a strange hard 
voice, and that she was looking at her with 
an intent look, that was difficult to understand. 

" I dare say you're wondering to see me 
out so late as this," she began, speaking in 
breathless tones, throwing her mauve bonnet- 
strings back, turning her flushed face toward 
Jane. ** It's quite an unusual thing. I never 
go beyond the garden after dinner. ' But I 
couldn't help it this evening, I was obliged 
to come." Then she paused a moment Her 
^es, which had been swollen and narrowed 
with excitement, seemed suddmlyto dilate, 
to acquire new force and intensity of expres- 
sion. " Miss Francis, what are yon mean- 
ing?" she concluded in abrupt accents. 

"What am I meaning?" asked Jane, not 
without a momentary suspicion of her visitor's 
sanity. 

" Yes. Don't I speak plainly ? What are 
you meaning? What can you be meaning? 
Have you no sense of what is right, or fitting, 
or proper? I know you've had no oppor- 
tunities of learning these things, but nine 



women out of ten know them without learn- 
ing. Not one woman in a hundred would 
have dared to do what you have done. My 
brother may be to blame, but he cannot be 
so much to blame as you are. You have 
flattered him into this, and you have deceived 
me into shutting my eyes to it Once more 
I ask you what you mean, and where you 
mean to stop?" 

. It had not needed the latter half of Mrs. 
Rushbrooke's speech to give Jane the clue to 
her thoughts. For the first moment she was 
stunned, then angered. But there were strong 
reasons why both these sensations should 
quickly give way to mingled feelings of pity 
and amusement She felt, though she was 
hardly conscious of it, in every way above 
the situiUion, immeasurably above the woman 
who had placed her in it Instead of answer- 
ing she was looking at Mrs. Rushbrooke with 
curiosity, her straightforward eyes a little soft- 
ened, her lips quivering with asuppressed smile. 

" You don't answer me," Mrs. Rushbrooke 
went on, with added bitterness ; " you don't 
dare to answer me, and no wonder. If I 
were you I shouldn't dare to look any upright 
woman in the face." 

Jane's smile would come, but it was a 
strange, almost sad smile. She drew herself 
up a little as she spoke, and her keen, elo- 
quent face seemed to express its superiority 
in every line. 

" Pardon me, Mrs. Rushbrooke," she said, 
quietly, and speaking with the purest and 
most deliberate intonation she was capable 
of—" pardon me, I think it is hardly worthy 
of you to say things like that. You will 
regret them afterward. I know, of course, 
what it is that you are alluding to, probably 
I may know more than you do at present ; 
but I feel sure that when you do know, you 
will be sorry for the things you have said." 

She would not speak more plainly; and 
she would not ask any questions. Naturally 
she was a little puzzled, but she had per- 
ceived enough to assure her that Mrs. Rush- 
brooke, though assuming a good deal, knew 
really nothing. If the Rector had not 
thought fit to explain the truth to his sister, 
it was not for her to do it 

Neither her words nor her manner was 
without effect upon Mrs. Rushbrooke. That 
lady sat for an uneasy moment or two 
smoothing the folds of her grey moire antique 
dress with the tips of her fingers, glancing 
with furtive, bewildered eyes at the little 
figure, who sat with such queenlike dignity 
in a dress that was all but in rags ; and for 




x86 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



What was there in those peculiar women 
who were independent of dress ? Presump- 
tion, she believed, and a high opinion of 
themselves. But that had nothing to do 
with het errand. She was as far from being 
satisfied as ever, and as much puzzled. This 
attitude of Jane's — self-controlled, deliberate, 
unabashed— did not confirm her worst fears. 

*' Perhaps you are right, Miss Francis," 
she said, after a pause, spiking with appa- 
rent thought, and much kss acrimony. " I 
dare say I shall be sorry. But you know it 
is very terrible for me — even the uncertainty is 
terrible. For, to tell you the truth, I do not 
yet know how far matters have gone between 
my brother and yourself. I hope not so far 
as — as I feared at first Will you tell me ? 
I will not repeat to him, nor to anybody, one 
word that .you say." 

" You. are at liberty to repeat to Mr. Har- 
court, or to anybody, anything that may be 
said by me. I cannot tell you what you ask." 

"You will not tell me whether you are 
engaged to him or not ?" 

Once more Jane hesitated and wondered. 
She decided that no one but the Rector him- 
self could have arousoi Mrs. Rushbrooke's 
fears. Why had he done so ? Why had he 
not set them at rest agEun? Doubtless he 
had had some motive with which she had 
better not interfere. Perhaps she was aided 
in this resolution by the strong temptation 
she was under to indulge her sense of 
amusement a little. Mrs. Rushbrooke had 
awakened her mischievous propensities to the 
uttermost, and seemed likely to keep them 
awake. 

" Oh, Miss Francis," she b^;an again, still 
a little awed and a little puzzled, " if you 
only knew all the reasons I have for coming 
here this evening, you wouldn't blame me, 
you wouldn't think it strange — indeed you 
wouldn't. It is for my daughters' sake more 
than for my own, or for my brother's. It 
would be a terrible thing for us all if m_y 
brother were to marry — well, out of his 
sphere, you kuow. I don't want to hurt 
your feelings in any way, but you must know 
that you are not his equal. And, as I was 
saying, it would be bad for us all, but espe- 
cially for my dear girls. We couldn't expect 
anybody of good &mily to be desirous of 
marrying into ours if such a thing as that 
took place. And just now, especially. I 
can't explain, but it would be especially bad 
just now." 

Jane looked concerned and sympathetic, 
and again Mrs Rushbrooke went on, — 
" I think I may mention it to you, but in 



the strictest confidence. And there is no- 
thing definite ; nothing at all definite. But 
I dare say you have heard of Major Falconer, 
Lady Ursula's son, you know. We are very 
intimate with them, and have been ever since 
we came to Sedgeborough. And Major Fal- 
coner is so eluding, with that charm that 
only belongs to high-bred people; and we 
have seen so much of him lately, though just 
at present he is in London. And he has 
been so very attei^tive to my darling Cecy. 
I can't help having my own thoughts — a 
mother's thoughts, you know. And only 
think, if anything came between, it might 
ruin my hopes, and Cecy's happiness too. 
So now you see, Miss Francis. Surely you 
will understand me ; surely you will not do 
anything to cause so much misery." 

Jane was still sitting with her stately air, 
and her earnestly attentive face. 

" Am I to understand that you think my 
marrying Mr. Harcourt would prevent Major 
Falconer from marrying your daughter?" she 
asked, in clear, measured tones. 

"I do ; indeed, I do. I have good reason 
for thinking so, tliough, as I said before, I 
tell you in the strictest confidence. But I 
do so in order that you may see plainly 
beforehand at least some small part of the 
unhappiness that would doubtless come of 
such an unsuitable marriage. I dare say you 
think a great deal of my brother ; I can 
quite understand that ; but, indeed, dear 
Miss Francis, you would soon get over it. 
Girls like you often have half-a-dozen such 
fancies, and marry some one quite different 
from any of them at the last." 

" So I have heard," Jane said, in an absent 
kind of way. She was apparency in deep 
thought; and Mn.. Rushbrooke congratu- 
lated herself on having made an impression 
at last, though she was somewhat doubtful as 
to the kind of impression. But the twilight 
was deepening into darkness now. Her 
brother might miss her, might even suspect 
where she had gone, and why. She dared 
not remain longer, though she was still un- 
satisfied. But she saw no prospect of imme- 
diate satisfaction. " I cannot tell you what 
you ask," Jane had said, and Mn. Rush- 
brooke had perceived that she meant it 
She must go, but she would go in a manner 
that would leave her free to come again. 

" Promise me, at least, that you will think 
over what X have said," she begged, gathering 
her rustling dress together, and drawing her 
lace shawl gracefully about her. And Jane 
bowed, smiliiig a little sadly as she said in 

quiet tones, Indeed, I will not forget" 

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OC 



X 



MILITARY NOTES ON THE BATTLES OF THE BIBLE. 1*7 



MILITARY NOTES ON THE BATTLES OF THE BIBLE. 

r. 



ANY disciission of the battles of the Bible 
is beset with one peculiar difficulty, 
namely, the mizaculous element that is con- 
tinually present It is well to deal with it at 
first To endeavoor to explain or soften it 
down, is to treat the 3ihle not only as a 
human history, but as a singularly corrupt 
human history. On the other hand, it may 
be a question whether the recognition of mira- 
cles does not at once put every matter of 
military tactics on ground which renders 
ordinary inquiry or criticism impossible. 

The answer to this is nevertheless simple. 
The circumstances narrated are matters of 
fact The miracles, when they happened, 
placed those present in an unexpected or 
extraordinary position ; but they had to act, 
and were subject to the same motives and 
impulses, as- men under ordinary circum- 
stances. The arm of die Lord fovght for 
Israd, but the weapons of then enemies were 
human one^ as truly as Macedonian speais 
or French bayoQets, and were subject to. the 
same laws. The Bible was not written, it is 
true, with the object of giving^ account of 
die tactics displayed in ancient wars, and the 
notices of such matters are of course inciden- 
tal ; nevertheless, owing to the repetition of 
battles under th^'.same general conditions, 
between the same natio^is, such notices stand 
out with a oonastency that is at first surpris- 
ing. To trace these out tends to give vivid- 
ness and reality to the historical aax>unts of 
the wars, and it is. simply for this purpose, — 
for the purpose of throwing &esh light on the 
Bible narrative, that we propose to examine 
the subject. Our object is in so far similar 
to that of Dean Stanley's " Sinai and Pales- 
tine," a work which, for vivifying the history, 
produces an impression on most minds to 
which it is difficult to do justice. Many cir- 
cumstances discussed in the following pages 
will be found noticed in some way by this 
very interesting author, and it is due to him 
to call attention to the fact, although in most 
cases the notices have not been taken from 
Dean Stanley, but discovered in independent 
study of the Bible. 

Before discussing particularwars and battles 
in detail, there are some prelitaainary remarks 
which it is well to make. 

The southern part of Palestine, with which 
we have principally to deal, consists mainly 
at the present day of two kinds of ground, 



rocky hills and sandy plains. Wooded land 
is almost entirely con&ned to limited patches 
of olive-trees ; and green spots only here and 
there appear, generally where the ^ound ha^ 
been terraced, and die soil cardully hus- 
banded. The rocky conical hills and ruggcil 
ravines recalled to my mind the scenery ol 
the Crimea. The climate is warmer, vegeta- 
tion very much less abundant, but the re- 
semblance is still striking, and would pro- 
bably be touch more so, were the hills of 
Judea more Uke what they were before the 
land flowing " with milk and honey " had be- 
come the luid of " desoladcm " and astonish- 
ment. 

If we divide the country into the district 
of the hills and that of the plains, we shall 
find, as in similar cases, that the inhabitants 
who possessed the countiy before its occu- 
pation by t^ Jews also formed two groups, 
each gmnp consisting of tribes possessmg 
qualities such as probably either led to its 
establishment in its particular locality, or else 
sprang from that circumstance. ■ 

The spies' account was concise. "The 
people be strong that dwell in the land, and 
the cities are walled and very great ; and 
moreover we saw the children of Anak there. 
The Amalekites dwell in the land of the south ; 
and the Hittites and the Jebusites and the 
Amorites dwell in the mountains ; and the 
Canaanites dwell by the sea and by die coast 
of Jordan." 

As Dean Stanley polnte out, the success of 
the Israelites was much greater in the hills 
than in the pkuns. In the former, even in 
the days of Joshua, their triumph appears to 
have been complete, except in the case of the 
Jebusite city which stood on the hill of Zion. 
It was not so in the plains. There, even 
Judah failed to conquer (Judges i. 19, 27, &c). 
Manasseh could not drive out the inhabitants 
of Beth-shean,Taanach, Ibleara,and Megiddo 
(all in the valley of Megiddo), and Dor by 
the sea coast. Ephraim, Zebulun, Asher, and 
Naphtali took tribute from,butnever expelled, 
the Canaanites of the plains; while the 
Amorites, who held some i»ut of the pUuns, — 
E^lon, Lachish, Jarmuth, (Jqsh. x.), — forced 
Dan into the mountains. The five lords of 
the Fhilistmes, also, not only held their ground 
in the plains, but recovered much that was at 
first taken. The mountain tribes, however, 
even the Jebusites, when once subdued, never 



i88 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



recovered, but appear to have become disin- 
tegrated. We read of Araunah the Jebusite 
as a peaceful citizen of Jerusalem, and of 
Uriah and Ahimelech, both Hittite warriors 
in David's army ; but we seek in vain for an 
Amorite, a Camtanite, or a Philistine, under 
the same circumstances. We certainly read 
of an Amalekite who seems to have been 
with Saul in some capacity ; but this occurred 
after the general destruction of Amalek as a 
nation, when there probably existed only 
wandering bodies of the tribe such as David 
overcame near Ziklag ( i Sam, xxx.). Indeed, 
from the time that the armies of Israel first 
climbed the hills of Judea, after the fall of 
Jericho, to their complete subjugation by 
Nebuchadnezzar, they were never driven 
from their mountain strongholds, although 
repeatedly oppressed and put under tribute. 

In the plains it was quite otherwise. We 
read in Judges i. 18, Judah took Gaza, 
Askelon, and Ekron, and yet in x Samuel (ch. 
vl) we find these among the capital towns of 
the lords of the Philistines. So ag^, in 
I Samuel xxxi 7, we have the inhabitants of 
the valley of the Jordan on both sides of the 
river, leaving their towns in the hands of the 
Philistines, while the men of Jabesh-Gilead, 
apparently little removed from the battle-field, 
but situated in the eastern hills, are not only 
undisturbed, but in a condition to undertake 
an enterprise and rescue the body of Saul, 
their former deliverer, from the hands of the 
Philistines. 

The explanation appears to be as follows. 
The strength of the kingdoms of the hills lay 
chiefiy in the cities ** great " and *' walled," 
and in the prowess and strength of their war- 
riors. " We saw there the sons of Anak," 
the spies said repeatedly. Now from the 
nature of things, such a defence as walls, 
would, in the days of Joshua, be very formid- 
able; but when once the cities were taken, 
their walls would stand as strongly for the 
new possessors as for the former ones. And 
terrible though the giants might be, physical 
strength and courage are qualities at least as 
likely to be possessed by desert wanderers, 
as by a race settled in a land, at that time 
rich and fertile. It was otherwise with the' 
nations of the plain. Their strength lay 
chiefly in their "chariots of iron." Their 
watfiue was of a kind specially suited to their 
plains, and their means of fitting were not 
at the disposal of the Israelites. Nor when 
conquered would these be readily adopted, 
for the victories were given by God, and 
were not due to the qualities which are 
generally found in conquerors, and which lead 



to the systematic improvement of any ad- 
vantage, Xenophon, when his Hoplites, Pet 
tasts, and Cretan archers are driven in and 
found unable to cope with the Persian cavalry, 
otganizes an impromptu mounted force, whidi 
gradually masters the duties required of them. 
But Joshua, after overcoming the hosts ctf Jabin, 
bums the chariots with fire, and houghs the 
horses. In the one casCi we have the natural 
expedient of the mind diat made Xenophon 
what he was. In the other, it was simple obedi- 
ence to the command of God that character- 
ized Joshua, and this was absolutely necessary 
for him in his path of power. All is con- 
sistent and in its place. Xenophon depends 
on his own resources, Joshua on his God. 
The Greeks are lost if they cease their efforts 
and relax their vigilance ; but with the Jews, 
if their faith feiils, everything is gone. The 
terrible chariots of iron are formidable enough 
in themselves, but to the Jews their power is 
in the ftrrw they inspire, they break not the 
fwiks, bnt the /aiik of their armies. We read 
not of actual havoc caused by them, but of 
the ay, " Hie hill is not enough for us, and 
all the Canaanites that dwell in the land of 
the valley have chariots of ifon " (Josh, 
xvii. 16). Nor do we learn that Joshua's en- 
couraging answer had any very marked efiect 
on those men of Ephraim, who are elsenhere 
spoken of (Ps. Ixxviii. 9) as " carrying bows " 
and turning " back in tiie day of batUe," 

The mention <tf bows leads us to another 
feature accompanying the chariot warfare in 
the plains; namely, the nse of bows and 
arrows, as contrasted with the ruder weaptnis, 
slings and stones, which were used in tiie 
mountains. Nothing is more natural, no- 
thing more marked than the place taken by 
each weapon. In the rocky hills, stones were 
abundant, and the sling was a ready weapon. 
In the plains the bow was a fitting arm to 
accompany the war-chariot, whose presence 
argued both preparation and considerable 
skill in the manufacture of war material. 
For in the plains, stones are not in such 
abundance, nor can the warrior readily stoop 
from his chariot to gather them, while an 
ample supply of arrows can be carried with- 
out difficulty. As might be expected, the 
bow and arrow supersedes the sling and 
stone, as the warlike resources of any 
kingdom are increased. Thus it was 
with Israel. We find Aem in a state of 
peculiar depression in the days of Samuel. 
The Philistines had long kept them under 
tribute, and deprived them of arms, and even 
the tools required to make tl^m. ^i^q^, ^ 



MILITARY NOTES ON THE BATTLES OF THE BIBLE. 189 



"there was no smith found throughout all 
the land of Israel ; for the Philistines said, 
Lest the Hebrews make them swords or 
spcan ; but all the Israelites went down to the 
PhilistineB, to sharpen every man his share, 
and his coulter, uid his axe, and his mat- 
tock" (i Sam. xiii. 19). In these days, sHngs 
and stones were much used, especially by the 
warlike mountain tribe of Benjamin. (Jacob's 
" ravenii^ wolf," Gen. xlix. 27.) In the 
terrible war with their brethren, they had 
"seven hundred chosen men left-handed; 
every one could sling stones at an hair 
breadth, and not miss" (Judges xz. 16). This 
was even before the Fhustines deprived 
them of weapons, but it argues a condition 
of rude mountain warfare. Doubtless, bows 
and arrows had been well known to those 
who left Egypt, but had dropped out of use. 
David, before his combat with Goliath, had 
a sling ready at hand, and his objection to 
Saul's armour on the ground that he had not 
proved it, implies that he felt that the sling was 
his natural and proved weapon ; and he seems 
to have felt confidence in God using him jiist 
as he came from his " lion" and " bear" con- 
flicts, and in the state in which he had expe- 
rienced the power of God with him. David, 
we may observe, came from Bethlehem, 
which is close to the borders of Benjamin. 
Afterwards, we read of Jonathan going out 
to shoot with a bow (i Sam. xx.) ; and David 
in his lament makes spedal menUon of the 
weapon (2 Sam. i.) ; but this is just what we 
might expect The bow was the better wea- 
pon, and as sudi Jonathan was likely to have 
adopted it Nay, we might almost argue 
from his way of going out to jwactise with it 
that he was giving the special attention to it 
which a new weapon would demand. His 
father was a stage further back in missile war- 
iare,f<n:heusedajavelin,andflungit. Lestwe 
should appear to particularise these weapons 
on too slight grounds, we may observe that 
Saul's spear or javelin is mentioned at least sue 
times (viz., i Sam. xviiL xo, 11 ; six. 9, xo; 
XX. 33 ; xxil 6 ; xxvi. 11, la, 33 ; a Sam. i. 6). 
Jonathan's bow or arrows, at least three (viz., 
I Sam.3cviii.4; xx. so, 21,36; a Sam.i32). 
Swords are frequently spoken of with both 
of them ; but Saul never has a bow nor 
Jonathan a javelin. 

In I Chronicles 3ui. 3, David is men- 
tioned as having Benjamites who used bows 
and hurled stones. After this, we have the 
account of his hearing the news of Saul's 
defeat and death in Mount Gilboa, where 
"the archers hit him and he was sore 
wounded of the archers" (i Sam. xxxL 3); 



and we read that David at once " bade 
them teach the children of Judah the use of 
(use of in italics) the bow" (2 Sam. i. iS). 
From this time, we hear of slings only twice ; 
in 2 Chron, xxvL 14, 15, when they appear to 
have been used for projecting stones from 
walls, probably on a large scale, correspond- 
ing to modem mortar fire, as well as distri- 
buted throughout the host ; and again in the 
Second Book of Kings (iii. 25). Gene- 
rally speaking, with the standing armies or- 
ganized by the kings, came in more regular 
warfare. As his conquests extended over 
the plains, David was tempted to reserve a 
hundred chariots with theur hoi^es (2 Sam. 
viiu 4), instead of destroying them all King 
Solomon went further. He distinctly dis- 
obeyed all the three commands given tp 
future kings by Moses, one being not to 
send the people into Egypt for horses 
(Deut.xvii. 16, 1 7), his chariots bdng fourteen 
hundred, and his horsemen twelve thousand 
(i Kings X. 36—29). From henceforth we 
have to do with chariots and archers. Ahab 
was slain in his chariot with an arrow 
(i Kings xxii. 34). Jehu shot Joram with 
an arrow, both being in chariots (2 Kings ix. 
34). Josiah was shot with an arrow when 
fighting against the Egyptians in a chariot 
(3 Chron. XXXV. 33). Joash, at the com- 
mand of E^isha, ^oots an arrow from a 
bow (a Kings xiiL x6). The king of Assyria 
was not allowed to set up shield and bank 
or to shoot an arrow before Jerusalem 
(3 Kings xix. 33). Asa had Benjamite bow- 
men (2 Chron. xiv. 8), and Nehemiah (iv. 
13—16) set men with bows, shields, and 
speais along the walb of Jerusalem. Such 
minute coincidences of the notices of weapons, 
with the progress of events, is a silent but 
powerful witness to the minute truth of the 
narrative. 

Another feature which we might'expect to 
find prominent in the earlier and ruder 
period of the history, is the use of walls as a 
defence; and to this we find references 
continu^y. The spies and Moses refer to 
walls as very formidable (Num. xiii. 28; 
Deut. i. 38; iii. 5). The fall of the walls of 
Jericho would, under any circumstances, be 
an event not to be passed over lightly, so we 
rather instance the device pursued in the case 
of Ai (Joshua viii.),andGibeah (Judges xx.), 
to draw the defenders out of their city, and 
deprive them of the benefit of the walls 
(Josh. X. 30). Abimelech's death Judges ix.), 
and Joab's reference to it, and shooting from 
off the wall of Kabbah (2 Sam. xi. 24), the 
breaking down of walls and other incidents, 



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in 2 Chron. txv. 23, and xxvi. 9, are, when 
looked into by themselves, hardly such as 
call for notice, bnt, taken together, they 
serve to show how the importance of walls 
was constantly making itself felt 

Passing -on now to notice some of the in- 
dividual wars and battles of the Israelites, we 
may take as our -first subject their conflicts 
n'fth the Philistines. Hie battles preceding 
them, connected with the conquest of 
Canaan under Joshua, were so ral>idly 
brought to a close by the power of God, that 
but few distinctive features make themselves 
apparent in the narrative. 

In the southern plains of Palestine, near 
the sea, we find the Philistines from the 
earliest times. Abunelech, king of Gerar, 
deigned when Abraham came into the country 
(Gen. XX.). With " Phicol, the chief captain 
of his host," he comes on the scene again 
; with Abraham (Gen. xxi. 23) and with Isaac 
' (Gen. xxvi.) ; in the latter case he is called 
"king of the Philistines,'' a position which is im- 
plied in the former one (Gen. xxi. 32). These 
notices show that the nation was a warlike 
one from the earliest times. Exodus xiii. 17 
' does so again in the words, "God led them 
' not through the way of the land of the Philis- 
tines, although that was near ; for God said, 
Lest peradventure the people repent when 
they see war, and they return to Egypt." 

In the conquest of Canaan we merely have 
the record that Judah, when assisting Simeon 
I his brother to conquer his lot, took Gaza, 
i Askelon, Ekron, and their coasts (Judges 1. 
I 18). llien comes the fear of the terrible 
I chariots a^iin ; and from the tone of the 
latter part of the chapter we can -see that 
Simeon's hold was a very precarious one, and 
I that shortly the five lords of the Philistines 
recovered their principal towns. Simeon be- 
I came severed and weakened, and so the pro- 
' phecy was fulfilled of his being divided and 
scattered (Gen. xlix. 7). From this time imtil 
; the days of David the Jews never seem to 
I have attempted to cope with the Philistines 
I in the plains. The question appears to have 
; been how far the Philistines could prevail 
I over them in their hills and bring them under 
[ bondage. Even this the Philistines frequently 
[ achieved, but frcrni time to time God sent a 
j deliverance such that they were swept down, 
I and recoiled in dismay into their plains, 
i Hiese are the struggles we have to notice. 
Their character is very peculiar. Necessarily 
leaving behind them their chariots, the Philis- 
tines, in entering the hills, depended mainly 
on their personal prowess. Their warriors 
seem to have been veiy . formidable, especially 



the giants. Hence these wars, in ground all 
wikl and broken, cooasted in irregular efibrts 
where a sudden surprise might effect mudi, 
and where much depended on an individual 
Thus it will be found that the element of 
single combat belongs only to Uie Philistine 
wars. We have PhiUstine wanbrs drying 
armies, as in the case of Goliath and his 
six-fingered relation (z Sam. xvii.; 3 Sara, 
xxi. 2r) ; then we meet with Ishbi-benob, 
Saph, Goliath's brother, and other terrible 
warriors mentioned. And this being a great 
source of Philistine strength, God shows 3iem 
how He raises up single warriors to whom 
theirs ■were as nothing; and we have the 
extraordinary personal deeds of Shamgar, 
Samson, Jonathan, David, Abishai.Jonathfui, 
David's brother, Eleazar the son of Dodo, 
Shammah» and David's other mighty men. 
The mention of an individual champion eflfect- 
ing anything is scuicely to be found in any 
war except with the Philistines, and there it 
is paramount 

A few words on the giants. Various esti- 
mates have been made of the probable height 
of Goliath and Og. The uncertain element 
is the cubit used. Goliath's height, six cubits 
and a span (i Sam. xvii. 4), has ^enoally 
been concluded to be from nine feet six inches 
to twelve feet. Qg is commonly supposed, to 
have been rather taller, but the estimate is 
based on the length of his bedstead, nine 
cubits (Dent. iii. 11). On this it is quite 
hazardous to depend. A giuit kir^ might 
pride himself on his stature, and wish to keep 
ttp the idea of it by a spedaUy large bedstead 
of iron. It seems probable Uiat Goliath was 
more gigantic than the warriors mentioned, as 
of " the sons of the giants," of " great stature," 
and the like. Supposing a shekel of brass 
to be the same as a shekel of iron, Goliath's 
spear was twice the weight of that of Ishbi- 
benob. In modem days soldiers of ten feet 
: in height would not be specially valued. 
Frederick William's army of giants was a 
: matter of ridicule rather than of awe. Let 
us. sec how far the giants of old differed from 
them. We now lay no great stress on a 
few inches in height. Frederick William had 
some enormous men found for him by the 
Czar, but we may s^ly fix his limit at ten 
feet, a height of wfaidi .we have few men 
recorded dming tiie last two thousand years. 
His guards, however, were iitdividitai se- 
mens, in most cases men who from some 
exceptional cause grew wonderfully ; in short, 
they were overgrown men. The giants in 
Scripture were a race, and the difference is 
very great. It is uncommon to find' a man 



MILITARY NOTES ON THE BATTLES OF THE BIBLE. iQi 



with a stock of vital energy differing greatly 
from his fellows; that is, tliose of his race. 
Consequently, a very tall man is generally 
rather feeble. In some cases a very well- 
itiade tall man may have his arteries and 
limbs so formed that the work of the heart in 
pumping the blood to the extremities is less 
felt than might be supposed. Still men that 
have shown extraordinary energy (we are not 
now speaking of single efforts of strength), very 
active leaders in wars, for example, have, on 
the whole, been remarkable, rather as being 
short than tall. Napoleon was very short, 
perhaps five feet four inches. Nelson was 
very small Wellington, we believe, hardly 
five feet eight inches. Peter the Great 
was short rather than tall. As far as we 
can learn, Gustavus Adolphus is almost the 
only great leader that was decidedly tall. 
Marlborough was a handsome man, but there 
seems no record of his being actually tall. 
It may well have been with him as with 
Louis XIV., of whom we hear, that when 
stripped of his high heels and wig, and laid 
in his coffin, his attendants could hardly 
believe that they saw in the little human 
&ame before them the body of " Le Grand 
Monarcbe." And William III. was under- 
sized, and his extraordinaiy opponent, Lux- 
emburg, was a dwarf. 

Claverhouse was anall ; so, we believe, was 
CromwelL As, however, there is consider- 
able difficulty in obtaining reliable evidence 
on such points, we pass at once to what we 
beUeve to be the fair conclusion. To judge 
if a man is overgrown or not — and on this 
depends his real fitness for severe work — we 
must know not only his own height, but that 
of his race generally. An Englishman of the 
upper classes oi five feet ten inches in height 
need by no means be an overgrown man, 
but we should suspect a Frendunan of the 
same stature. To English ears the incident 
sounds ^OBge of General Buonaparte walk- 
ing up to a knot of discontented French 
officers in Egypt^ and informing one that his 
" five^feet ten mches" would not prevent 
his being hanged for mutiny. 

A race of giants, then, men who naturally 
grew to a height of ten feet wiA vital powers 
in proportion, would be indeed terrible in the 
species of war wf^ed between Israel and 
the Philistines. No wonder if the spies crept 
past them, feeling they were grasshoppers in 
their own sight, and in that of the giants also. 
Hence we cannot wonder that God chose 
individual men to show that under the greatest 
disadvantages the battle was still the Lord's. 
Webq;inwithSham(^. Of him (Judges iii. 



31) it is merely related that "he slew of the 
Philistines six hundred men 'mth an ox goad," 
and " delivered Israel." The Philistines had 
already begun to oppress Israel. Subse- 
quently we read that they had deprived the 
Israelites of arms and smiths. When the 
system commenced we do not know, but it 
is remarkable that an *' ox goad," " the jaw- 
bone of an ass," and a "stone," should be 
chosen to do such execution among them. 

In Judges xiii. the Israelites are again under 
bondage to the Philistines for forty years. 
Then Samson was bom. In chap. xiv. he 
first discovers his supernatural strength. He 
had been raised up by God to humble Phi- 
listia and deliver Israel, and special faith as 
to this we read he had, though his peculiar 
troubles sprang from acts which were any- 
thing but godly. He seems to be a man whom 
God uses as an instrument, but not one who 
is guided in any way by knowing the mind 
of God. We have little to say of Samson. 
His strength was altogether miraculous. In 
the first scene of his might we have the men 
of Judah leading him bound and the Philis- 
tines shouting, or, as the Septuagint has it, 
running forward to take him. Then the 
Spirit of the Lord comes upon him. With 
one bound he is firee, the new rope flying 
like burnt shreds. He seizes upon an ass's 
jaw-bone, and now he is on &e Philistines, 
and Jud^ and their enemies look in awe at 
tlie sudden beating down of the ranks around 
him. .As the power of God becomes more 
evident, the ^ilistines apparently fly, and 
Samson pursues them, ever beating them 
down, and so the strange scene continues, 
and we may suppose Samson to have carried 
on the slaughter through valley after valley, 
for he ends by finding himself alone, and, so 
probably some little distance from the com- 
mencement of the stmggle. Unheard by 
human ears, aghast at the power that has 
worked in him, he says, " Heaps upon heaps, 
with the jaw of an ass have I slam a thou- 
sand men." Unseen b^ human eye, he faints 
for want of water, and is revived by the pro- 
vision made for him of God. This is not the 
place for our class of notes. And so it is 
throughout the story. One remark we must 
make, however. There seems to exist a com- 
mon idea that on each occasion when Samson 
misled Delilah, that the licrs in wait dis- 
covered themselves, but there is not a shadow 
of ground for this. There is no reason to 
suppose diat Samson was either so foolish or 
so forgiving as this would argue. That De- 
lilah would try for herself whedier Samsom 
had told her the tiu4iio«B& MUiO@^LC 



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SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



loiie his hair and, for a time, his strength, he 
certainly ought to have expected ; but he 
had no reason to suppose tliat her cry, *' The 
Philistines be upon thee, Samson," was more 
than a mock alarm to prove him. The only 
remark to make here on the final scene of 
Samson's last grand effort and death is not a 
military one j namely, the vaunt of the power 
of Dagon, which God does not allow to pass, 
but puni^es by causing them to bring out 
Samson. Then follows the modcery, then 
the prayer. Then Samson bows himself with 
all his might, the walls totter, and in a 
moment all is a pile of ruins and crushed 
human bodies. We specially notice the 
vaunt of Dagon's power in contrast to the 
success of Uie Philistines in i Sam. iv., 
when they own the power of God, but de- 
I termine to fight " like men," and in con- 
! nection with the fate that afterwards befalls 
Dagon, when they seek to honour him (i Sam. 
v.). This accords with the principle we laid 
down of the power of the nations being gene- 
rally human, and such as admit of investi- 
gation. The scene of the battle in the be- 
ginning of Samuel, when the ark of God is 



taken, is just what would be expected. 
Aphek (i Sam. iv. i) is one of those places 
where the struggle generally took place — 
where the Philistines left their plains and 
Israel resisted them as they entered the 
hills. Great as was the Philistines' victory, 
the enforcement of tribute and the establish- 
ment of garrisons in certain places in the 
hills to enforce it, seem^ to liave been the 
result rather than actual occupation of the 
hills. Indeed Bethshemesh appears to have 
been die bordn village, to which the lords of 
the Philistines followed Uie ark God, and 
where they left it and returned home ; and 
Bethshemesh is not so far advanced into the 
hills of Judah as Aphek, where they had 
taken the ark. In chapter vii., when Samuel 
seeks the Lord's help for Israel, the tide of 
conquest is so far rolled down into the plains 
that we read (ver. 13), "The Philistines were 
subdued, and they came no more into the 
coast of Israel and the land as far as Ekron 
and Gath, which seem to have laid at the 
base of the most western hills, was restored 
to Israel. The Philistine wars of Saul and 
David we reserve for our next article. 



THE CHAIN OF THE UNWARY 

IN THE FAITH WHICH IS IK CHRIST JESUS. 

"Teach me thy wayi, O Lord." * 



TT E let it be for end of His 
J- Whose light our dulness cannot dim, 
And I by whose own fault it is 
Will take its full effect from Htm. 

For Christ is Lord, and when we miss 
A moment's warning of His eye. 

New signs of watchful tenderness 
Beyond the unheeded waymark He. 

And not in vain the gentle thought 
Deep in that slighted instant hid, 

His futhfiil guard so fitly taught 
To let us pass it as we did. 

A foolish step that bars return 
Will clear with pain our upward gaze, 

While from the last escape we learn 
His deeper thoughts and higher ways. 

For then a love divinely true 
The pressure of our chain must bear, 

And harm that nothing can undo 
Wakes our whole nature to Thy care. 



O Saviour who wilt save indeed, 
Behind all tokens still the same, 

Whose heart is with us at our need 
To sanctify the Father's name, 

Glad as by reassuring day 
Across the night alarm I see 

Thy goodness wm its perfect way 
Ttuough everythmg that £uls in me. 

What if the way that may not spare 
A wiser child had never trod — 

For me whom Thou art teaching there 
It is the chosen place of God. 

And by the counsel of the hour 

How blest this bending will shall be 

Not with a fragile human power. 
But in the Father's gift of Thee ! 

Ah, what shall spoil it? Not distress 
That only meekness can sustain. 



And not the need for perfectness 
Hid in a fellowship of pain. 

Thee let me grow to understand 

In ways of wisdom as they part. 
Till the least signal of Thy hand 

Shall meet its answer in my heart. — a. l. \r. 



1 



i 



THE CHILDREN AND THE SHE-BEARS. 



193 



THE CHILDREN AND THE SHE-BEARS. 



"T^HE children destroyed by two she-bears, 
the narrative of which is found in 
2 Kings il 23, 24, is a subject which has 
given rise to much discussion. It is a pas- 
sage of sacred history which has presented a 
difficulty to many minds. For &ie purpose 
of removing this difficulty, some forced and 
untenable explanations have been given. 
What is felt in accepting the narrative, as 
it is ordinarily understood, is that the punish- 
ment inflicted on the forty-two (^klren was 
out of proportion to the offence. To adopt 
the meaning of the passage as it appears on 
the suriace, is calculated to impugn the 
justice and goodness of God. Hence there 
are persons who would render the word 
translated " children,*' by " young men." It 
is admitted that in several places of Scripture 
the word , is found to have this sense, and if 
we could suppose that those who mocked 
the prophet EUsha were not cliildren, but 
young men, old enough to know what 
was morally right and what was morally 
wrong, that then they would be justly 
responsible for the offence of mockery 
which they had committed. Unfwtunately, 
however, for the rendering, this noun is 
qualified in the text by the word "little," 
and, therefore, the translation must be " little 
children," as we have it. But if we were to 
assume that the little children in our version 
were actually young men, there still remains 
the question, whether mockery, even under 
circumstances most inexcusable, is an offence 
of so great a magnitude as to merit the awful 
punisbunent which was in this case inflicted. 
There are several other instances of mockery 
recorded in the sacred volume, yet in no one 
of Hiese do we read that the <^eQce was 
visited by a punishment so severe as that 
which befell the children described in the 
narrative under consider^on. Elijah him- 
self is said to have mocked the prophets of 
Baal, when, after long and earnest suppli- 
cation to their god, they failed to obtain the 
answer they required. "And it came to 
pass at noon, that Elijah mocked them, and 
said. Cry aloud, for he is a god, either he is 
talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a 
journey, or peiadventure he sleepeth and must 
be awaked." This derision bestowed on the 
prophets of the false god was surely as strong 
as that heaped on the prophet of Uie true God 
by the children when th^ cried out, " Go up, 
thou bakl^iead, go up, thou bald-head." In 

IV. N.S. 



the case of Elijah, there is no intimation th.it 
bis mockery was considered an offence ; if it 
was so considered, it was, nevertheless, con- 
doned. The logical inference is, that it was 
not mockery which in this case brought on 
tlie juvenile offenders the punishment of 
death. The difference of circumstances sur- 
rounding each of these cases is not sufficient 
to account for the destruction of the children. 
This difference, indeed, so far as it can be 
traced, app«|is to be in favour of the 
children. It is true that the person mocked 
by them was a prophet of the Lord, a holy 
man, a man of God, and it may be thought 
that the position and character of the person 
constituted an aggravation of the offence. 
But, on the other hand, it must be stated 
that such a person would be more likely, 
than one of an opposite character, to over- 
look an impropriety committed by children. 
He would, probably, first reprove them for 
what they had done, he would then give 
them a ^therly lesson on manners and duty, 
and leave them with his blessing. 

Enough appears to have been said to show 
that the crime of mockery could not have 
been that which brought on the head of these 
offenders so fearful a judgment, and that 
consequently we must look elsewhere for the 
true explanation of what is recorded in the 
Second Book of Kings. The true explana- 
tion is, I think, to be found in the history of 
the period to which this transaction belongs. 
It occurred at the time when the worshippers 
of Baal — partly from the defeat which they 
suffered from Elijah, and partly, I suppose, 
from other causes— were intensely hostile to 
the people of Israel. This hostili^ passed 
from father to son, ever increasing in inten- 
sity, till it reached its climax at me time the 
two bears went forth from the wood to 
accomplish their deadly work. In reference 
to this hostile feeling, as a key to the true 
cause of the punishment of the children, is 
the following from the pen of one who, in 
the early ages of Christianity, was renowned 
for his theological learning, and whose works, 
as a great Oriental classic, are studied with 
much interest even in the present day.* 

He says, " It was not the opprobrium 
thrown on the prophet Elisha and his being 
stoned that was the cause of the destruction 
of these children ; but for another hidden 



Jacob sf EdosKi. 



194 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



cause they were destroyed. For these were 
sons of those iniquitous priests who ministered 
to the calf in Bethel, sons of the sons of the 
l)rophets of Baal, whom Elijah slew in the 
days of Ahab. These were enemies both of 
lilijah and Elisha; also of all those who- 
feared the Lord God of Israel, and of those 
especially who were sons of the prophets of 
the Lord who were in Bethlehem ; of those who 
said to Elisha afew days before, * Knowestthou 
that the Lord will take away thy master from 
thy head to-day?* These were iniquitous 
persons and haters <^ God, whose sons heard 
them when they said that Elijah the prophet 
had gone up to heaven, and they mockal at 
this continually as false and devoid of truth, 
and they sung of him derisively from the 
time they heard it until now, to wit, before 
their wives and the children, whom the bears 
tore, when they shouted mockingly, ' Go up, 
Elijah, go up, Elijah.' Wherclore these 
wicked children, and sons of wicked persons, 
little children, sons of evil ones, and haters 
of God, when they saw Elisha, the disciple of 
Elijah their enemy, and the enemy of their 
fathers, mocked lum, shouting as they had 
heard from their fethers. They also stoned 
him with stones, and said, 'Go np, thou bald- 
head i go up, thou bald-4iead,' {fUsely indeed 
as thy master Elijah hath gone up. Where- 
fore Elisha cursed on account of their race 
these children evil, and sons of evil ones, in 
the name of the Lord, the God whom and his 
prophet they derided- Wherefore also God 
quickly heard of it, and smote them in anger, 
and sent upon them these bears and destroyed 
them.** 

This is the hidden cause of the destruc- 
tion of the children. It was not because of 
modcery, but because of the race to which 
these children belonged, as the writer above 
quoted has said, that they were puni^ed. 
So far as they understood the mstructicm 
they had received from their fathers and their 
fathers' fathers concerning the worship of 
Baal and the worship of Jehovah — so far as 
they understood the difference between the 
prophets of Baal and the prophets of Jehovah 
— so far they would of course be hostile to 
the latter. To the extent to which their early 
age enabled them to exercise a judgment on 
the subject, to that extent would the judg- 
ment be perverse, and to the same extent 
would they be responsible for the sin of 
idolatry, and of rebellioa against the true 
God. It is, however, more probable that 
these children were of too toider an to 
incur any responsibili^. Be this as it may, 
there is no doubt that the punishment viih ' 



which tihese children was visited must be re- ! 
garded in the main not as a punishment on- j 
themselves as individuals, but on their race. ■ 
The object of it was to impress on the race, \ 
in the most solemn manner, how enormous 
was the sin of idolatry in the sight of Jehovah^ 
the God of Israel. The dire disaster, which 
befell these childrm through the instrumen- 
tality of the prophet Elisha, and that which 
befell the prophets of Baal through the in- 
strumentality of the prophet Elijah, had the 
same object in view — that object being to 
vindicate the worship of the true God, and 
to proclaim that God is a jealous God, and 
that the people ^ould have " no other gods 
but Him." 

Of course it will still be alleged, tliat by- 
the act of punishment you throw a respon- 
sibility on the children. The reply to this 
charge must be founded not on logic, but on 
fact. It does not belong to fallible man to 
scrutinise stricdy the ways and laws of God 
but we have the testimony of experience, and 
that shows that diildren often suffer &om the 
sin of their fathers. There is the influoice of 
an evil example ; and when it is set by a 
parent to his child, that influence, because of 
natural affection, and from a natural love of 
imitation, cannot &il to be great. The con- 
sequence ia, that the example of the pazent is- 
too of^ followed by the child, and this the 
sin of the father is frequendy visited upon 
his offspring. Again, immoral living generates 
bodily disease, and this disease is frequently 
inherited by the children of the immorai liver. 
Further, a man, through indolence or mis- 
management of his aSkirs, loses his position 
in society, and is reduced to poverty, and hie- 
children, who in no way contr^uted to these 
altered circumstances, nevertheless share with 
the father in the depkffable consequences. 
Here, then, are cases, to the tiuth <^ whidi 
most of us can testify from experience when 
children are punished mainly, and sometimes 
entirely, beamse o£ the race to which, they 
belong. 

We have only to contemplate the state of 
things around us to see in this punishment of 
families and races one of the principles by 
which God's moral government of the world 
is carried on and maintained. That which 
comes within the compass of our observation, 
and falls within the region of our personal ex- 
perience, is but the execution of a law to be 
found in the sacred volume, and is, therefore, 
invested with the authority which belongs to 
Holy Writ. The second commandment is 
that which denounces the crime of idolatry, 
and in it is declared that the Lord is arjealous 



THE CHILDREN AND THE SHE-BEARS. s«s 



God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon 
the dhtldren unto the third and fomth geaera- 
tion of them that hate Him. The an solely 
tpcated of in this commandment is that oS 
idolatry. That was the offence which, per- 
haps, more than any otlier, provt^d' the in- 
dignation of Jehov^ He is descnfoed as a 
jealous God. The one great lesson which He 
desired to teadi the peoj^e of Israel, the one 
great truth which He wished to impress on 
their minds, may be found in the words, 
" Hear, O Israel, the Lord onr God is one 
Lord." Any acknowledgment of other gods, 
any worship of them, would be sure to arouse 
the jealousy of the L(»d, and to bring down 
upon the heads of Uie offendos the most 
severe <rf' all pumiAiments. We have a strik- 
ing •exemplfficatioa of what IB now stated in 
the case of Ahab, the most iddatrous of the 
kings of Israel. This is the punisfament irtiidi 
was-deDOumxd against Ahab, and which was 
curied into execution : " Behold, I will bring 
evil upon thee, and will take away thy pos- 
terity, and will make thine house like the 
house of Jooboam, the son of Nebat, and 
like the house of Baasha, the son of Ahijah, 
for the provocation wherewith thou hast pro- 
TcMted me to angor, and made Israel to sm." 
The leKecution m Hob sentence was by the 
hand of Jchn, as we read in the Second Book 
of Kings. *' So Jehu slew all that remained 
of the ^ouse of Abab in Jezreel, and all his 
great men, and his kmsfolk, and his priests, 
until he left ihem none remaming.'* We 
may reasonably infer that among his posterity 
w«e children, if net o! the second, yet <^ the 
diird generation, and that they with the other 
kinsfolk of Ahab were slun by the hand of 
Jdiu. Indeed, there is no reason why this 
law shoaM not be carried out in the case of 
dnldren, as well as in that of an adult pos- 
terity ; for in each case it is the fathers' sin 
that is visited upon them, whether the son be 
of mature years or of tender age, the sm is 
not his. All posterity, consequently, must 
come under the operation of the law, and no 
line of separation can with consistency or 
justice be drawn. Besides, the word 
translated " diildren " in the second command- 
ment, although in the original its <»diziary 
meaning, is that of sons, and although it is 
not &e same as that employed in the text, 
yet the word often signifies children neces- 
sarily^ as may be seen by consulting any 
Lexicon or Concordance. I am led, there- 
fore, to affirm diat the remarks now made 



support the interpretation of the text, which 
I luve here msisted on^viz., Aat tlxe chil- 
dren were not destroyed by the bears because 
they mocked the proifdiet Hierenias mother 
cause of their perilling. The txue cause 
was that they belonged to a laoe <^ idolatets. 
They were the children of the worshippers of 
Baal, who had themselves been previously 
destroyed by the hand of Elijah. These 
children lost their lives under the operation 
of tiie law revealed by God himseU' in his 
second commandment. I would here close 
what I have to say in -tiie elucidation of the 
text; but it may be desirable to te£et to an 
apparent inconsistency between the seamd 
comrnaodment and what we read in the 
eighteenth chapter of EzekieL 'Here God says 
in explanation of the provob, " The iaAers 
have eaten sour gn^tes, and die children's 
teeth are set cm edgie." "Behdd, all souls 
are mine : ■ as the soul of the fadier, so also 
the sotil of the son is mine : the soul that 
sinneth, it shall die. The son shall not bear 
the iniquity of the father." Further, in the 
list sins specified as the sins of the fether, 
which shall not be visited on the son, is that 
of lifting up " his eyes to die idols of the 
house of Israel." Now, this is the vay am 
treated of in the second coBunaadmest » 
one which shall be visited. It would appear, 
then, that one of these passages -of Scripture 
contradicts the other. I think, however, 
they may be reconciled. It appears to me 
that the second comma ndmmf has reference 
onfyto the punishment in this fife, whilst 
the prophet Ezekiel is treating of die punish- 
ment in the life to come. There is no pas- 
sage of Scripture to iavour the idea that the 
second commandment is spea&ing of punish- 
ment in a future state. We know that it is 
inflicted on posterity in this life, and if we 
consider the power of example, or the con- 
struction of human society, we shall see that 
it is almost, if not quite, impossible for the 
oifspring of widced and reckless pamOs not 
to suffer. But there is actually no naaon to 
suppose that this cause of punishment is 
operative beyond the grave, niere the lan- 
guage of the prophet is stnoliy true, " The 
soufdiat sinneth, it shall die," and die soul 
that keepeth from sin, it shall live. This 
language, too, is in harmony with what Christ 
himself has stated : " By thy words thou shalt 
be justified, and by thy words thou sh^t be 
condemned." 

GS0RG£ miLLIPS. 



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"ASKED OF GOD JULY. 1873 ; 

THIS tide is the inscriptioa upon the front 
of a hall at Blackgang on the Isle of 
Wight, and is the epitome of a very sweet 

story. 

The ministry in that hail is of the sort of 
which the prophet Joel must have had a 
vision when he said, *' It shall come to pass 
in the last days, saith the Lord, I will pour 
out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your 
daughters shall proph^y," for of a truth the 
I Lord is there fulfilling tlus promise in a won- 
derful way. The Spirit is poured out upon 
many more than all the local population of 
Blackgang and it is our daughters chiefly, 
though not exclusively, who do the prophesy- 
ing. 

It is quite a household afi^, for there are 
five members of one family who each take 
part in the services, and four of them are 
women. 

The hall itself is neat and convenient, and 
it is very comfortable for an assembly of four 
hundred people. And it is in use every 
Sunday all the day long, for services of one 
sort or another, for grown folk or children, 
as well as at stated times on other days of 
the week, and is filled with the presence of 
Him who dwelt in the temple of old. 

Yet the hall ts not the main feature of the 
work of God there by the ministry of his 
daughters. A great help it is undoubtedly, 
and a delightful monument to the faithfulness 
of the Lord to his promises, but it is only 
the new in-door feature of what was begun 
and is continued mainly out of doors, under 
the glory of the presence of Him who dwelt 
in the bush and in the cloud long, long before 
the temple was built. 

Blackgang was not named by its own 
people, but by others, as expressive of the 
estimation in which they held its inhabitants. 
It seems that in the olden time, when wreck- 
ing, smuggling, md j>iracy were lucrative, 
and by no means so disreputable as now, the 
gentry of this ilk nested thisie. And whether 
from their complexion, bronzed as they must 
have been by the sun and the wmd, or from 
the colour of their deeds of darker hue, they 
became known as black gang, and this 
soubriquet for the people fastened upon the 
place of their abode. Dark names do follow 
deeds of darkness, you know, and are apt 
to stick with Ethiopian tenacity. 

The drive from Shanklin — another awk- 
ward name for a lovely place— over the hiUs 
by the sea, to Ventnor, and along the under- 



RECEIVED DECEMBER, 1873." 

cliff from there to Blackgang is one (rf the 
loveliest in any country. The blue above 
and the blue below, with the green hedges, 
and grand old oaks, elms, ashes, and limes. 
And the curious nooks, dells, and comeTS, 
and the beautifiJ houses of every variety in 
form, and the grounds under sudi thorough 
and tasteful cultivation, make every hill-top 
and hollow, and each turn of the road an 
agreeable surprise. 

Blackgang itself is a little scattered village, 
perched here and there upon the broken 
declivity, not over steep, of the high under- 
cUff overhanging the sea, with an oudook in 
the rear upon the face of the bold upper-ciifF 
lifring itself far above in an uneven line 
along the sky. The upper cliff, however, 
bredcs down just there, and talis off into a 
broad and beautiful valley, which extends 
from end to end of the isle, thus affording an 
onlook over the valley, covered with farms 
admirably improved, to the opposite line of 
hills terminating at the sea end in " The 
Needles." The view, whichever way you 
look, is charming, and it must be confessed 
that the piratical crew, whether they appre- 
ciated it or not, did choose a most delightful 
nest for themselves and their viper brood. 
Of course they have long since given place 
to better people. Yet it is said that until 
this work conunenced a ^ear or so since, the 
place has never been praised for its godliness. 
There is indeed a church about a mile away, 
and has been for hundreds of years, and the 
children have been christened, the dead 
buried, and the living joined in wedlock in a 
Christianly way — ^but then, what more ? 

One among the chiefs of the parish said, 
in reference to this matter, when a stir began 
to be made in the way of the what more, 
"Your children are diristened, and your 
dying have the sacrament of the Lord's 
Supper administered to them, and what more 
C€my9uask t" 

'niis would certainly seem to show the 
urgent need for asking and receiving some 
light from above to dispel the gross darkness 
covering the people. 

A great light has come upon them. A 
wonderful transformation is in progress. And 
everything in it and about it would bear the 
same inscription as that written upon the 
front of the hall in everything but the dates. 
Each thing has been asked, and one by one 
they have been received in answer to prayer. 

Franke's Institute in Halle of^rmany, 



"ASKED OF GOD JULY, 1873; RECEIVED DECEMBER, 1873. 



and the Ashley Down Orphanage at Bristol 
in England, and the Home for Consumptives 
on the Highlands of Boston, America, do 
not testify one whit more truly for God as 
the hearer of prayer than this work at Black- 
gang. 

The simple story of some of the leading 
things in this work moved my soul so deeply 
to ask and expect in future greater things 
than ever before, that I feel constrained to 
tell it to others. May it do more good to 
many, many thousands than it has even done 
to me. 

To begin at the beginning, the household 
engaged in this work is that of Charles W. 
Reade, Esq., and consists of his wife and 
her sister, with himself and two daughters. 
The first notable thing after the facts aheady 
stated, is the way in which this family was 
led to Blackgang. They lived many years 
in India. Then Mr. Reade's health failed, 
and they returned and tried the vicinity of 
London. It soon became evident that this 
would not do, and he thought of Wales, which 
his physician recommended. At this point 
his eye fell upon the advertisement of a house 
at Blackgang, for rent at a moderate price, 
which called to memory a visit there before 
he went to India, and how he had been 
charmed with the spot At once the doctor 
was consulted, and instantly said, '* Ah ! that 
is the very place for you." 

Then Blackgang was visited, and the 
house found to be in every way suitable, and 
all things seemed favourable save one. But 
that one thing, as it appeared to him and his 
household, presented a very serious draw- 
back indeed It was just this, there were fm 
there to be saved. 

A great change had been going on in the 
hearts of this C^istian housetwld. Through 
a little book^'^ Mr. Reade himself had been 
led into abiding union with Christ, and filled 
with his peace. And about the same time, 
the younger of his two eldest daughters, a 
young lady of twenty, had been brought to 
the Saviour. A deep sweet tone of love and 
desire to do good pervaded the family. The 
two young ladies with their mother and aunt 
wished much to go where they might hope 
to win many lost ones to Jesus, and when 
Mr. Reade returned from Blackgang, with the 
report that thoi^h there was great need of 
the gospel there anumg the few, yet the whole 
popidation (rf the village itself did not include 
many if any more than twen^ scattered 
families, the thought of going there to make 



Gtadoen is Jesu." 



home seemed like a quencher to all the bright 
hopes recently kindled in their hearts. 

No important movement is made by them 
as a fajnily without unanimous and cheerful 
consent The whole matter was taken to 
the Lord and ccmunitted to Him for decision 
by the circle as one. finally, the mother 
gave counsel in these word^ " Let us try it 
six months and see." To diis all agreed. 

The way in which they were cheered and 
strengthened to expect great things at Black- 
gang, notwithstanding ^e very limited extent 
of the field, as \\ appeared to tiiem, is very 
beautiful. 

One day two evangelists called at their 
house, and when Mrs. Reade met them, she 
was so impressed with the worn and wearied 
look of one of the two, that she spoke of it 
with deep sympathy, and warmly invited 
liim to come to them and rest awhile before 
going on his purposed journey to Scotland 
for work. 

The other evangelist exclaimed, " How 
wonderful ! I have been asking the Lord to 
incline your heart to offer him a room, and 
we came to see whether you could do it or 
not, and now you have already invited him 
before we had time to tell you otu: errand. 
Truly God is good." 

The evangelist remained several days, till 
he had rested and grown strong. Mean- 
while, very soon the whole state of the case 
concerning Blackgang became known to him, 
and he waited on the Lord day after day 
about it, until at last he said with a joyful 
confidence quite contagious, *'Go to Black- 
gang, and the Lord will give 3rou souls there 
not a few. Ask hundreds, and He will give 
them." 

This was wonderfully cheering. The pro- 
blem did indeed still remain unsolved, for 
how could hundreds of souls be given them 
in a village of scarcely twenty families all 
told ? Yet the words of the evangelist did 
fling over the field a sunlit cheeriness if they 
did not enlarge it 

The Lord, who is wonderful in counsel 
and excellent in working, is the great solver 
of all the problems of faith ; and when they 
went forward, trusting wholly in Him, it was 
not long before they began to see his solu- 
tion of diis one. 

They came to Blackgang, and the first 

Sunday after arriving one of the daughters 

said to her aunt, " Let us go out into the road 

and speak to any we may meet." This vas 

the more remarkable because they had never 

done a thing of the kind before. The aunt 

said. "Yes." and they went Near the ",T{m,'I^ 
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across the way, a little up the hill tiom the 
hotel to which it belonged, a little cotene of 
men stood talking, and Sie ladies approached 
them, and began — ^prophesying shall I say? 
—speaking very earnestly to them the things 
concerning salvation. At first the men 
laughed, then sobered, and listened for life, 
and others soon joined them. 

These all, as the work afterwards grew, and 
the harvest began to come in, were amongst 
the earliest sheaves, and they all give that 
first Sunday as the date of thfu ficst sericHts 
thoughts. 

The next Sunday, although no notice was 
given, about twenty assembled in the same 
place at the same hour, and the ladies spoke 
to them again, and the following Simday 
thrice twenty were Uiere. And so it went on 
growing untU the out-of-door assemblies num- 
bered hundreds, and comprised people from 
many miles around. Interest deepened every 
time, and it was perhaps the third Sunday 
that, after speaking to the people out of doors, 
the ladies invited them in-doors to hear more. 
The drawing-room filled, and then Mrs. Reade 
began speaking to them, as her daughters and 
sister had aheady been doing out of doors. 
Conversions clear and decided greatly en- 
couraged them to go on askii^gand receiving, 
speaking and gathering in, and tlw converts 
themselves by their joyous testimony aided 
in extending and deepening the work until 
there was great joy in all &e Kfpou. round 
about 

The numbers eager for the in-door instnic- 
tions soon became so laige that they were 
constrained to ask fox ground on which to 
build a hall ; to ask first of God, then of the 
only man in the village of whom they might 
hope for the privilege of purchasing. From 
this man they received a very decided nega* 
tive, accompanied by the discouraging words, 
" You cannot buy a foot of land for the pur- 
pose within a mile of the. place." 

This answer from the man did not dis- 
hearten them, but sent them afresh to the 
Lord. This was in July. Not a word more 
was said to Uie man, .yet of his own accord 
he came and said, ''ihaveeonchtded to sdlyou 
the ground you -want for a hall^ and to ^uid 
you the hail too" 

Then, when told plainly that they were not 
rich, and had not the money to pay, either 
for the ground or the hail, his generous 
answer was, "AU right. Take your time. 
Pay me moderate interest from year to year, 
and take ten years, if you Uke, to pay the 
princtpaL" So it was agreed, and so the hall 
was built. This was in Decaid>er. And so 



it came about that it could be truthfally in* 
scribed upon the front of the hall 

" Asked of God JulTt t8»." 
" Hooeiwd December, 1873." 

In the course of the year or so that tliis work 
had been in prc^^resa jQi^S ^ nionejr has 
been sent to Mr. Reade in aid of it, and mudi 
of that frcmi persons wholly unknown to any 
one of his household. And these diii^, 
both the hall and the money, are only inci- 
dent to the greater things fbr which they 
have been asked and received. More than 
three hundred and sixty people, who before 
might luive ttutfafuHy sai4 " No man careth 
for my soul," have been won to the c»n- 
fessioa of Chrirt as their Sovioar; and so a 
great light has dawned npon die people filling 
many households vidi a pea(» and joy un- 
known bdbre — a foretaste ctf Uiss never end- 
ing above. 

And now, \riiat of two things so wonderfully 
prcseitted by these facts — our daughters in 
connection widi the fulfihnem of the predic- 
tion of Joel, and evangdizing by prayer as 
the primary thing ? 

The Spirit haa in this instance been poured 
out upon all flesh ; yes, upcn more than all ; 
upon thrice over as many as all in die village 
of Bkckgang, and it has been mainiy in con- 
nection with the mimstry of women. Nor 
have they lost so mudi as the bloom of 
womanlinesB in the process^ or neglected 
domestic affiuis in the least. Four women 
of one household, just tiie number of the 
daughters of Philip the Evangelist, refined, 
educated, womanly in presence and deport- 
ment, begin in the open air in front of the 
" Tap," with three or four men, and in a yea: 
gather between three and four huncfred into 
the fold of salvation, and that in a place 
where the people of the vilh^e are scarcely 
one-third of that number. 

This is quite in keeping with the spirit of 
Joel in his glowing predictions. It needs 
onljr to be repeated in every locality, whether 
in dly or country, and the words of the pro- 
phet w<HiId be grandly fiilfilled. 

Why may it not be done ? Are there not 
tms of thousands households where there 
are hearts and tongnes to ask and receive, and 
to speak as the ^irit should give them utter- 
ance, idle, or held back firom asking, recdving, 
speaking ; and that in tens of tilousands of 
centres as hopeful, to say the leaM <tf it, as 
Blackgang? 

Are ^re to-day thousands upon thou- 
sands of desolate places which would speedily 
become gardens of beauty if only our daii^- 

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"HE IS BETTER, NED." 



199 



ters would do as this little band has done — 
ask and receive, go where the Spirit should 
leadj and do what He should bid ? 

Is thCTC any connection between the un- 
willingness of our daughters to obey the Spirit 
if He should be given to them, and the fact 
that they aie not filled mth his presence ? 

What relation is there between the holding 
bade on their part and the withholding on 
the Lord's part, of the outpouring of the 
Spant upon all flesh? Can the prediction 
ever have its fulfilment until our daughters, as 
well as our sons, shall be wiUing to prophesy ? 
Is tbe fear of offending the human sense of 
pxs^iriety, and so of losing caste before the 
world, preventing compliaacewiSi divine pro- 
priety as exix-essed by the pvphcl? And is 
it so that in very TMiny instances we filters, 
and bEstikoa^aadlMnfanA caald,if we would, 
but do wa%. CBBonfe ov: daiu;hters, and 
sisters, JBid men* as has been oMie in this 
bmily, t» ak aad receive,, and obey die 
Sjurit in ■IhImh mi He may ghre ttem to do 
or to say? What is the ndtfUD between 
their unwilllMVcas »d onrs ? And what is 
the idition betweea tite vnriUingncss to 
have tibc n^heqr fiilfiUed in ourselves and 
our imiftg^ and its non-fulfilment in the 
comiTHititt amad ns? Can it ercx be 
fu!6ned a^mad anongst die perishiag ontil 
it has its l iJfi hf t first in our families ? 

^aSSt we paoK and lift up oiu* hests fas 
God's imwr to Aese questions one by <»e ? 

And now tor the other matter, Whst 
about e van g efch ig by prayer? Hece is « 
place lAidk a far months ago woaU have 



been regarded by any ordinary pastor or 
evangelist as a very insignificant field, and an 
exceedingly hopdess one ; and yet in a time 
so short it is akeady marvellously changed, 
and has become the centre of a work con- 
stantly extending, in which nearly four hun- 
dred lost ones have been saved. A great 
work for a lifetime of ministry upon the usual 
principle. And all this without a church, 
without a minister, without an evangelist, 
without any human planning, and without 
any daily continuous series of meetings, or 
any mission week even in the whole time; 
and all by the ministry mainly of four women 
who had never before spoken in public in or 
out of docvs, or had any previous e;q)eriencL' 
in work of the kind. 

How came it to pass ? 

Has this household been led practically into 
the great secret of successful evangelization 
missed by so many ? 

Is the -principle which lies at the founda- 
tion of the mmderfiil groirdi of such works 
as Fake's Institute, MuUer Orphanage, and 
Dr. CuUis* Home ibr Consmnptives, after all, 
the true princ^^ of success in every work of 
God, and espedafiy in the greatest of all 
works — evangeliastieB ? 

Win it be ao, that when the prophecy o! 
Joel shall have its JmU-JUl-ment, there might 
be truthfiilly inaoftcd upon every instrument, 
evesy plan, and waA, and word, as well as 
upon each sared < 



' AM af eWb tt racks Itoft 



E. BQABDiUV. 



•*HE IS BETTER. NED."* 



AH, Aeaen nnst work 



When little ones toss 

On thdr beds at home. 
They must steer away 
Out over the foam < 

I sfaiB ne^ fbrget 

How he leslc'd thatAqn— 
VHisn he nnnd his host 

Fast into Ac bay; 
And ludled me quick 

As I went alon£ : 
In my ears the sound 

Of the boatmen's s»n£. 



AailMihtei 

ThatfltedAiwM4nd; 

And a gleam of joy 

Came over his foce, 
Ami alight in Us qre 

Shone for a space. 

"When he looked agafai, 

Uy £kce tdd fm^ 
How my words were meant 

To Miten his roe ; 
And he jumped aehore. 

My laave brother Ned, 
And slowly we walked 

To the high diff head. (^r\a\c> 
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And all that he said 


I must bear up too, 


When we reached the door 


Bat the weight b sore 


Was, " Sister, you've known 


Thoogh ' he is not lost. 


Like trial before. 


Only gone before.' 




" But how can I bear 

The stillness at home, 
Where was laughter once. 

And • father is come ! ' 
And the little tricks 

He was wont to play — 
Oh, sister, you feel 

What I can?tot say." 



And he staggered in 

Like a man that's broke ; 
Of Charlie, the child. 

Now he seldom ipoke ; 
Bnt before age came 

He was white as snow, 
Such a power th^ have 

O'er our lives below. 



A. H. J. 



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THE GEHENNA OF THE JEWS. 



30I 



THE GEHENNA OF THE JEWS. 
Bt thk author of "Jewish Bukul Ritbs," " PAasom Obsektances," &c. 

PART I. 

[Tabnadical and Rabbinical reference^ are given throaghout this article. The better to ttnderstatid 
their valae, it should be remembered t£at to every pious Jew the Talmud and Medrasb approach as near 
as possible to infallibility. Space does not admit <n giTine an acccmnt of these marvelloua monuments of 
antiquity. Enough to Know that the stricter sort of Israelites regard Ibem with a reverence second only 
(if, indeed, second at all) to holy writ.} 



SEVEN things are eDumerated by the 
sages * as having been created before 
the world,— 

1. The Uw. 

2. Repentance. 

3- The Garden of Ellen. 

4. Gehenna. 

5. The glorious Throne of the Most High. 

6. The Holy Tenaple. 

7. The Name of Messiah. 

Raschi, an ancient commentator of the 
highest consideration among the Jews, tones 
down this daring piece of Rabbinical dog- 
matism into the most unpresuming common- 
place, by explaining that these things were 
not actually called into being before the 
world, but that they existed in God's purpose, 
since He pre-ordained that He would create 
them. 

But leaving the unnumbered ages of divine 
predestination, and moving fcward to a 
pcnnt when time began to be reckoned, the 
Talmud asserts that the fire of Gehenna, and 
the mouth of the pit that swallows up the 
ungodly, were created on the evening of the 
sixth day.t 

This statement, however, is not allowed to 
stand withoutcontradiction,forthe Medrash,! 
equal, if not superior in weight to the 
Talmud itself, upholds a theory of its own, 
and in reply to the question — "Why was it 
not said in reference to the work of the 
second day, as on all other days, ' And God 
saw that it was good?"' § — makes answer, that 
the customary words of approval are want- 
ing, because on that day Gehenna was 
created. 

As to tiie purpose that Gehenna was des- 
tined to fulfil in the divine economy, the 
same venerable authority || afiirms that God 
created angels on the second day, but def&re 
Gehenna, and announced to them that it was 
prepared for man to be his abiding-place, if 
he should fall into sin. In another place H 
it fiirthermore relates how God showed to 
Moses all that had ever been done in the 

' Talmnd, Nedorun, 54. f PUMcliim, 54. } On Geneii*. 

) GcD. i. S. 11 On Exodus. U On Numben. 



world before he was bom, and all that would 
happen afterwards— the tribes of Israel with 
all their principal men— every generation 
with its spiritual leaders, its judges, its rulers, 
its righteous, and its wicked. Last of all, He 
laid open before his eyes the torments of 
Gehenna, and in answer to the question, 
" For whom is this prepared ? " replio], " For 
the wicked and transgressors." Upon this 
Moses began to tremble exceedingly, but 
God stilled his fears by words spoken about 
the entrance into Canaan, but which also, 
say the Rabbis, had a double reference, and 
included a promise of deliverance from the 
punishment of Gehenna : '* I have caused 
thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shall 
not go over thither," * 

It is needless, perhaps, to point out that 
this account of the divine purpose in the 
creation of Gehenna is not exactly accordant 
with the declaration that hell is " prepared 
/or tht devil and his angels^* t 

With respect to the position tA Gdiemia, 
there seems to be the usual amount of diver- 
sity of opinion amongst the'Rabbis. A large 
and influential body maintain % that it is 
above the heavens. The word used is 
Rakeah,§ and in explanation of this term it 
should be mentioned that universal belief 
amongst the Jews \\ portions out the sky and 
all that is beyond it into seven divisions, 
each of which has its own proper name and 
purpose. In the sixth of these, known by 
the Hebrew title of Mechown,5f are said to 
be laid up treasures of evil snow, scalding 
water, evU hail, malignant dews, hurricanes 
and noxious vapours, each of which has its 
own storehouse, ^rded by a door of fire. 
Hiese are the various agents that are used in 
the torment of Gehenna. Conmiaiting upon 
their power of inflicting injury, Raschi points 
out that the snow and hail and water are not 
such as we have ever had any experience of 
in this world, but are special creations for 



* Deut. xjtiiv. 4. t Uatt. XzT. 41. 

t Talmud, Tomid, 32. i ypH 



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the punishment of the wicked. They are 
discharged in torrents upon their head.* 
And this, say the Rabbis, is the meaning of 
Daaiel vii. lo : "A fiery stream issued and 
came forth from before him;" f>., the 
punishment of the wicked proceeds from the 
throne of God Himsdf. 

The Medzasfa t thinks that a foretaste of 
tiiis desolating rirer of fire has already been 
given to men, when it says that every drop 
of water that fell upon the earth at the time 
of the flood had been previously heated in 
Gehenna. JRiischi is also of opinion that 
whenever there is a famine in the world, it is 
caused by a few drops of this destructive 
fluid coming down, and mingling imper- 
ceptibly with the rain. 

Other Rabbis will have it that Gehenna is 
not " above the heavens " at all, but that it 
lies " behind the dark mountains " — an ex- 
pres^on which is understood to denote the 
pathlen wastes that stretch b^wd the habit- 
able regions of the earth. Others, again, 
attempt to fix the position of Gehenna by say- 
ing that it is a near neighbour to the Garden 
of £den,t and that there is only a thumb's 
breadth between them ; or, as oUiers con- 
tend, that they are divided by a wall. The 
value of this piece of top<^raphical informa- 
ticHi would not be lessened if the sages 
could only agree amongst themselves as to 
the quarter in which we are to look for 
Eden. 

Of the name Gahinnom§ — ^better known 
to £n^h readers as Gehenna — it is hardly 
necessary to say that it means " the valley of 
Hiuuan " || — a filthy place close to Jenisalemf 
where all sorts of r^se were thxown. Hence 
its name easily and naturally became a 
:^onym for everything that was foul and 
loathsome. Hot ashes, says Aben-Ezra, were 
sometimes carried there, so that a smoke 
went up, and gave rise to the universal 
belief that it was one of the three doors 
of faeE This idea is not confined to the 
superstitious or illiterate, but is to be found 
in the teaching of the Talmud, followed by 
Raschi, Aben-Ezra, and a host of distin- 
guished audiotities. Tim is also mentioned 
with favour by Mendelssohn himself the 
great patron of the modem school of Re< 
formers. 

The gates (rf hell are placed as ktk- 
Iows:S» 

One in the wilderness, authority bong 



' Talmud, ChagfKgn, 13, 
t Mednuh on EcclctiuM . 



i On Geneti). 

I Seo Jer. xix. 3 ud 3 King^xiii. to. 
1 Tslmud, Iromi, 19. 



claimed from Numbers xvi. 33: "They and 
all that appertained to them went down 
alive into the pit," where the pit is in He- 
brew Shaol,* one of the names of helL This 
incident, it is needless to say, happened in 
the wilderness. 
The second in the sea. Jonah ii. s : " Out 
tlie vall^ of hell cried I," where the same 
word Shaol occurs. 

The third is in Jemsalem. Isaiah xxn. 9 : 
" Saith the Lord, whose fire is in Zion, and 
his furnace in Jerusalem," where the com- 
mentators explain that "fire in Zion" means 
Gehenna, and that " the furnace in Jerusalem " 
is its door. 

Rabbi Jochanan Ben Zacchai, a name of 
high repute among the sages of Israel, is vent- 
precise in his description, and says that near 
to Jerusal^ is Ga-Een-Hinnom,t " the valley 
of the son of Hinnom," where stand two 
palm-trees, from between which smoke arises. 
"This," he Gontiaues, is the gate of 
Gehenna." J 

Tophet is another name by which this 
valley ci honors is also known. '"For 
Tophet is wdained of old ; yea, for the 
king it is prepared: he hath made it deep 
and large : the pile thereof is fire and much 
wood ; the breath erf the Lord, like a stream 
of brimstone, doth kindle it" (Isa. xxx. 
33). Aben-Ezra points out that this name 
was applied to it on account of the fiJth 
(in Hebrew r^iyis, Tenii^t) which was 
thrown ther^ and which made it a vast 
abominaticm. This title at once became 
current as a i^rnonym for Gehenna (hell). 
As to the ecology of the word Tophet, 
Talmud points out that it agnifies " com- 
pliance with persuasion," § meaning that if a 
man ;^Ids to the seductive infiuenoe of the 
evil inclination, Tophet (Geheima) is his 
place. II 

Gehenna is describedlT as being without 
bounds. But this definition is too vague for 
the Medrash,** which lays down the doctrine 
that Egypt was equal in size to the sixtieth 
part of Cush, that Cush was equal to the 
sixtieth part of the world, and that the world 
itself is like the lid of a saucepan m com- 
parison of Gehenna. The same authoritf> 
with a quickness of perce^ioa for time and 
distance that does credit to its powers of 
duenratioa under snnewhat ui&vourable 
circumstances, goes cm. to say that it would 



i Talmad, Sncck, 31. 1 Troven tq. 

||;For otkcT nuBe* bj which OMplam «t tonDcnt b knw 
ee " Tcwi«h BurUl Riu*.'' Good Words, Awnut, l8l!»>„ ^ I 



THE GEHENNA OF THE JEWSw 203 


take two thousand one hundred years to walk 
across Gehenna. 

But, whatever its dimensions maybe, its 
appetite is insatiable, for its ceaseless excla- 
matiw is, " Give t give I Bring me moFe 
wicked to devour !"* 

Its daikness also is so densely impene- 
trable that th^ who are imprisoned there 
cover their bodies with it instead of with 
garments. It was a portion this, says the 
Medra5b,t which settled down apon the land 
of Egypt as one of its plagues, when " they 
saw not one another, neither rose any from 
his pla<x for three days " (Exod. x. 33). 

The punishment of Crehenna om^sts cS 
the extremes of burning and freezing, the 
Medrash distinctiy affirming that it is half 
fire and half hail Its duration will vary 
according to the guilt of the offender, as will 
presently be seen. 

At the Day of Judgment all mankind will 
be divided, not as ChristiaDS believe into Acv, 
bnt into t/^ee classes — 

1. The perfecdy righteous. 

2. The perfectly wicked. 

3. Those who are not perfectly righteous, 
and who are not entirely wicked. 

Of these, the first will instantly be " written 
down and sealed " (to keep up the Rabbinical 
mode <^ expression) to evedasting life, and 
the second will in^ntly be "written down 
and sealed" to everiasting death.§ The 
third will be sent away to Gehenna, uke the 
second, hut, unlike them, will be brought up 
again when the time <tf Iheir pnni^ment is 
over. 

To this last class belong (with certain ex- 
ceptions, which will be hereafter noted) the 
sinners of Israel Between these and the 
«vil-doers from among the nations of the world, 
abroad line of distinction seems to be drawn; 
while both are ctmdemned to Gehenna, the 
punisluDaent of Isradites lasts f<H: a twelve- 
month only, at the e:q»rati(»i of which time 
they are burnt to ashes, and the wind carries 
the dust, and causes it to fikU beneath ihc 
feet of the righteous. And tiiis, say the 
Kabbis, is what is meant in Malachi iv. 3 : 
" And ye shall tread down the wicked ; for 
they shall be ashes under the soles of your 
feet in the day that I shall do this, saith the 
Lord of Hosts." 

This doctrine is taught by the Talmud in a 
g^eat many different ways, but always with 
much positiveness as to ^e future release and 


salvation of Israel. It would be profitless 
and wearisome to quote passages in support 
of teaching which no orthodox Jew would ever 
be betrayed into doubting 

Some authorities go so&r as to promise not 
only a speedy deliverance frffln die place of 
torment, but that none of the circumcised 
shall ever enter it.* But what, then, will be- 
come of those among the Israelites, who by 
reason of their evil deeds deserve this doom ? 
Are they to be allowed to mingle without 
notice in the crowd of the faithful ? Not at 
all. Neither then: descent from Abraham nor 
their <nrcumcision will help them, for there 
is an angel who is specially charged with the 
duty of disguising tiie sign of t^e covenant 
whidk they btiar in their person.t This done, 
Gehenna opens its mouth and swallows them 
up. 

But so great is the divine compassion, that 
even when standing on the very brink of the 
pit of destruction, the wicked are summoned 
to repent.^ Some, however, will have it that 
this refers only to transgressors taken from 
the nations of the earth (Gentiles), but that, 
as far as the wicked of Israel are concerned, 
the fire of Gehenna refuses to consume them 
on account of the heavenly precepts and or- 
dinances which diey have observed. This 
last assertion is repeated over and over again 
by Talmudical writers, with various illustra- 
tions, but always as a piece of sel&evident 
doctrine. Thus, for exan^le, it is laid 
down § that the wicked of Israel cannot be 
destroyed in the place of torment, for as the 
altar was preserved from being burnt by a 
plate of gold which lay on the top, so the 
Israelites, who are possessed of quahties 
more precious than gold, are preservol amid 
the consuming fires of Gehenna. 

For the faithful, then, their detention in 
the place of torment will be only that their 
purification from the sins of earth may be 
complete, and that they may be fitted for the 
enjoyment of the bliss of Paradise. Why, 
asks the Medrash, Q are Israelites compared 
to sand ? Because as sand, which in i^elf & 
rough and incohesive, is nevertheless sub- 
jected to the action of fire, and forms an 
important ingredient in the composition of 
glass, after which all its roughness disappears, 
and it becomes transparent; so the Israel- 
ites, who are rough with iniquity, are made 


' Modrub on Eaodiu. 

t CoiupaTe I Cor. vii. : " It any man called being circum- 
cised ? Let him not b*cotBe uncircnmciMd,: " whore AJford 
(Giredc TmI.) tayi that thia vnt ilone by a lur^cal oiMntioo, 
and that the practice wat adopted by those who wished to 
appear like the Gentile*, and to ca«t off tbdr ancient faith 
and habiu. 


* T«lina(], Avodcs Zora, 17. ' t On FtrnJnf^ 

* laJmod, Rububonini, 16. 

1 See Dftaiel lii. a : " Aad aiaaj of then that Blogp in tba 
Qiut of tbtt Mith ihaU aMake, mua to nrailaatiac Mb, tad. 
■oaa to Asm ud crcriMtiiiK coBtoRpki" 



204 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



to pass through the flames of Gehenna, and 
come forth pure as crystal. And this, say 
the Rabbis, is the meaning 6f God's pre- 
cious pTxnnise to his people by the mouth of 
Isaiah (diap. xliii. a)—-" When thou walkest 
through the fire, thou shalt not be burned ; 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee." 
It is the man's sin, and not himself, that will 
be consumed. 

The wicked from among the Gentiles, on 
the other hand, are sent away to Gehenna, 
and their punishment is everlasting. For 
these there is no escape and no remission of 
suffering. On this point the Talmud is very 
precise, and declares * that they will be 
iudged f from generation to generation. In 
a case like this it is important to give the 
Hebrew words as they stand — nVl'n 'n'n^ 
—the literal translation being "throughout 
all generations," or, as we should say, "for 
ever and ever," It clenches the matter by 
affinning that there will sooner be an end to 
Gehenna itself than to their torments, and t 
that God himself constantly ministers strength 
to them, so that they may have the power to 
endure their punishment without being con- 
sumed. 

Attention is specially called to these state- 
ments, which are far from standing alone in 
the writings of the Rabbis, because disin- 
genuous, or else ignorant, efforts have from 
time to time been made to show that the 
eternity of punishment is an invention of 
Christianity, and that the doctrine never 
found place among God's elder people. 
Whatever Jews may make it convenient to 
believe at -the present day, either about them- 
selves or others, nothing can be clearer than 
that their forefathers were unalterably con- 
vinced of the existence of a place of torment, 
where certain of the wicked — but not all — 
v.'ould expiate their sins by a never-ending 
punishment. 

Every man at his birth, says the Talmud,§ 
has a share allotted to him both in Paradise 
and Gehenna. He is at liberty to live as he 
pleases, for perfect freedom of will is allowed 
to him, according to the well-known Rab- 
binical saying, that everything is in the power 
of God, except the way of man — meaning 
that it is left to each human being to follow 
good or evil as his own inclination may lead 
him. If he lives il/, he forfeits his share in 
Paradise, and another man gets it. If, on 
the other hand, he lives itfel/, he loses his 
share in Gehenna, and some one else takes it. 

It is perfectly true that some of the most 

* Raghaihoaim, 16. f Equivalent to "pnniabed." 

t Talmud, Sanliedrim, 99.' 1 Cba^gta, 15. 



ancient and venerated c£ the Rabbis have 
denied the existence of Gehenna as a pUue; 
but none of them — not even the great &ther ! 
of mediseval scepticism, Moimonides, himself 
— has ventured to question the state of punish- 
ment after death. Mention is made in die 
Medrash* of a certain illustrious teacher, " 
who rises up and maintains that there is no 
Gehenna. But he immediately qualifies and i 
explains his denial by going on to say that ' 
the sun now shines through cloud and vapour, ^ 
which mitigate its heat, and make it endur- 
able, but that at the last day it will pour doivn 
its full strength upon the wicked, and that 
this will be their punishment of Are. This, , 
it is said, is what is meant by the prophet , 
Malachi,iv. i, " For, behold, the day cometh. 
that shall bum as an oven ; and all the proud, 
yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be stubble : 
and the day that cometh shall bum them up."' 

But a second Rabbi, of equal authority 
with the first, is disinclined to accept this ^ 
interpretation, and prefers one of his own to . 
the effect that, instead of a local Gehenna, , 
a fire will come fortli from the body of ths 
wicked themselves, and will bum them up. 
" Your breath, as fire, shall devour you " 
{Isa. xxxiii. ii). 

From whatever source, however, the punish- 
ment may come — whether from a pit filled , 
with raging flames, or from the sun shining | 
with the full power of its fiery strength, or I 
from the combustion of a sinner's own body > 
— no Jewish teacher of credit, tintil modem 
days, has ever doubted that it would be ex- ^ 
cruciating, and, in certain fixed cases, eternal. ^ 

As to the feelings of dread with which the i 
remembrance of Gehenna has been found to 
affect even the devoutest of the sages, it will 
not be beside the present purpose to mention 
the case of Rabbi Jochanan Ben Zacchai. 
which comes down to us on the authority o! j 
the Talmud.! When this great and holy I 
man lay a dying, his pupils came in to core- 
fort him, and found him weeping bitterlv. 
Greatly astonished, they inquired, " Rabi i, 
thou Light of Israel, thou Right-hand Pillar | 
of the House of God, why dost thou weep ? i 
" If," replied the dying teacher, " I were about : 
to be led before a king of flesh and blood, 
who is himself here to-day and to-morro^.^ 
the grave, his wTath, should he be angry with 
me, will not last for ever. If he binds mi-'j 
it is not for everlasting. If he kills me, my i 
death is not for ever. I might, perhaps. ' 
pacify him with words, or buy my release 
with monejf. But even then I should have 
wept to thmk of the greatness^ my peg};, 
".Ontieowiil Digitized l»f«V(^ ^- 



THE GEHENNA OF THE JEWS. 



205 



And now that they are leading me before the 
i King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He 
who livedi and abideth for ever and ever I — 
1 who, if He is angiy with me, his wrath is 
everlasting. If He binds me, his binding is 
eternal. If he kills me, it is for ever. Whore 
I dare not tiy to pacify with words or to bribe 
with mooey — and, not only so, but when I 
see that there lie before me two ways, one to 
Gehenna, and the other to the Garden of 
Eden, and that I know not in which of these 
two they win lead me — 'Shall I not weep?" 

That the pdins of Gehenna allow of miti- 
gation in certain cases is a doctrine most 
firmly held and taught by the sages. Thus, 
for example, the tears which the wicked shed 
in the place of torment are supposed to cool 
the intensity of the fire.* And this, they say, 
is the meaning of Psalm Ixmv. 6, "Who 
passing through the valley of Baca " (Hebrew, 
" weeping") " make it a wdL" Then, again, 
the Talmudt bas a curious story to the effect 
that when the earth swallowed up Korah his 
sons did not actually go down with him to 
the lowest depths of Gehenna. They repented 
of their sin, even in the very act of descend- 
ing into the r^ons of torment, and God 
commaaded the pit to provide for them a 
separate place of lesser pain where they sing 
perpetual hymns of praise. This is said to 
expldn the heading of certain Psalms, "for 
the son.s of Korah," or " of the sons of 
Korah." See Psalms xliv. to xlbc., and also 
Ixxxiv., Ixxxv., bcxxvii., and bczxviii. 

So, tco, when Absalom was going down 
headlong into Gehenna, and David bemuled 
him with exceeding bitter lamentation, it is 
the opicion of the sages that as often as the 
broken-hearted king cried out " My son, my 
son," it had the effect of drawing him up one 
degree from the nethermost place of torment J 
But the good deeds, and specially the 
prayers, of the righteous, have the effect of 
delivering souls from the pains of Gehenna. § 
In illustration of this it may be mentioned 
that for eleven months after the death of a 
parent all male Jews are bound to the daily 
recital of a form of devotion known as " the 
Kaddish." This is done pubHcly in the syna- 
gogue. A break occurs in the service, and 
all of a sudden three or four of the congre- 
gation begin to sway themselves heavily 
t>ackwaids and Hmnraids, while they chant out 
voids, which in their English equivalent run 
as follows : — 

"May His great name be magnified and 



* Medrub on Bcodul 
t Tabnad, SoDts, 1 1. 



f Sanhedriin, no. 
t Talmud, Inn>ed, lot. 



sanctified throughout the world which He hath 
created according to His own good pleasure : 
may He establish his kingdom, while ye live in 
your dajrs, and while all the house of Israel 
be living ; speedily, even time quickly coming, 
and say ye Amen." 

To which the congregation responds — 

" May His great name be blessed, may it 
be adored for ever, even for ever and ever." 

After which they proceed — 

" May the supplications and entreaties of 
all the house of Israel be accepted in the 
presence of their Father who is in heaven, 
and say ye Amen ;" with more to like effect. 

This is repeated every day for eleven 
months, after which it is ^continued, except 
on each returning anniversary of the parent's 
death, when the use of " the Kaddish " b a 
point of most inexorable obligation. So 
careful indeed are even the laxest Jews to 
recite it upon these occasions, that it would be 
easy to reckon up examples of men who sel- 
dom or never are seen in their place in the 
synagogue, who comply to the full with Gen- 
tile usages — who eat pork and other abo- 
minations — and who are yet punctual, and to 
all appearance devout, in performing this 
rite. It is, perhaps, the last thing of all that 
a Jew would bring himself to give up. As 
be recites his '* Kaddish " for the sake of his 
departed parents, so, when his own time 
comes, he hopes tiiat his sons may remember 
to say it for hint 

The prevailing use of "the Kaddish" is 
founded on a belief lliat it is of most potent 
virtue in delivering from the torments of 
Gehenna. A year is the ordmary time 
allotted for a soul to remain in thef fire, which 
purifies it from all its earthly stains, and 
makes it capable of the undisturbed enjoy- 
ment of Paradise. But children are supposed 
to be so thoroughly satisfied about the merits 
of their deceased parents as to have no room 
for doubting that they will pass through the 
purgatorial regions much more rapidly than 
their neighbours. Firm in this conviction, 
therefore, it would be a discredit to the 
memory of die departed to suppose it possible 
that they should be detained in Gehenna for 
the full time assigned to the ungodly. So at 
the end of eleven months liiey leave off say- 
ing " the Kaddish." 

This favourite form of devotion dates back 
to the time of Rabbi Khiva, revered by 
orthodox Israelites as not the least worthy of 
the Talmudical sages, and owes its origin to 
the following curious legend : — 

In the course of his rambles this holy 
Rabbi was greatly astonished one day to see 



2o6 SUNDAY 



a man pass hurriedly before him with terror 
and anguish written on his face. He was 
bearing a load of wood, beneath which a 
beast of burden might have sank. Notwith- 
standii^ its enormous weight, the man's pace 
was rapid. He seemed to be impelled .by 
some unseen power wtuch was dnving him 
on, for every now and then he sivang forward 
just as a tired horse does when it feels the 
whip. A thrill of awe passed over the Rabbi 
while he watched the <aoadiing figure as it 
scoured across the plain. It seoned as if he 
were in the presence <tf some great mystery. 
What could it mean ? 

" Ho t you sir ! " he shouted out at last, 
"whither are you goin^ in such a huny? 
And why are you breaking your back with 
such a load?" 

" Stop me not," gasped the wood-bearer, 
" stop s\e not, for evexy momenat that I stay 
here demons flog me with scorpions;" and 
then with a cry of anguish he set off wildly 
again. 

"Bat can I not hdp you? "shouted the 
Kabbi after hun. *' If you are a slave to some 
cruel master, I will fetch the noney to Ixty 
your freedom.'* 

Alas, alas ! " sighed the other, while for 
a moment he slackened his pace, "Your 
kindness moves me deeply, good sir; but 
I sm^e one who is not to be bribed with 
money. Your offer is friendly, but it only 
aggravates my torment." 

"Who are you, then?" demanded the 
Rabbi, whose interest in the luckless port^ 
had by this time so completely mastered his 
usual gravity, that he found himself tanning 
as &8t as his legs could toudi the gzouad, ^ 
order to overtake him. 

Once more die flyii^ 6gure 8toi^>ed. 

" Hinder me noV' lie wailed in a voice of 
pain ; " hinder me not, as you value yoiu: 
own soul. Do not ask who I am. J^ough 
to know that I am- a wretched one, who for 
the unrepented sins of life am doomed to 
gather piles of wood on which to bum my 
body." 

Rabbi Khiva fell back amazed. His flesh 
began to creep as he asked himself— Was it 
possible that he was really in the presence of 
one of the lost ? His terrco' lasted but for a 
moment Instantly recovering his self-pos- 
session, the Rabbi's whole soul was absorbed 
in the one thought <^ helping the miserable 
sufferer that stood trembling before him. 

"What have you done?" he Inquired. 
"And how long is your punishment to last?" 

"Mode me not by asking what have I 
done? which of God's laws have I not 



MAGAZINE. 



broken ? Nothing can now avail to help me. 
Too late ! too late ! " and with a pierciog 
shriek he again da^ed forward, at a pace 
that would soon have carried him out of 
sight 

But Rabbi Khiva was reserved to know i 
his namei if <Kily that he might remanbo: 
him in his praj^n. Putting fotlb sdi his 
strength, therefore, he caught him ap once 
more, and in a few l»x>ken sentences leatnt 
the fugitive's name, as well as the name of 
the pkce in which he had lived. It was 
miles and miles away ; but urged by an un- 
conquerable impulse. Rabbi Khira lost do 
time in setting out for the town. 

In reply to his inquiries after the wood- 
bearer's wife, "Do yo\i ask for that repro- 
bate?" said a decent diopkeeper to whom 
he had addressed himself. " What day of the 
year is there on which she does not commit 
some new adultery ? Speak no more of her ! 
She is not a fit subject for talk." 

" But has she no son ? " asked the discon- 
certed Rabbi, who &»md himself suspect 
of evil designs on account of his anxiety to : 
£nd the abwe of this worthless womta. 

" Yes, she has a son," his informant went 
on, " a worthy ofispnng such abandoned 
parents; for the faUier robbed our synagogue, 
of which he was treasurer, and ended a life 
of hypoarisy by a deed of shame which has 
caused his memory to stink. But no more 
of him. He lies in his dishonoured grave." 

" And the son i " inquired the Babbi, for 
his informant seemed to have forg<tften all 
about him in bis mdigoation at tlw fiuher^ 
sins. 

" Oh 1 he is not circumcised, though he is 
now more tiian four years old, and he lives 
according to the ways of the Gentiles." 

- Sick at heart with this tale of sin, the good 
Rabbi still detormmed within himself to try 
if anything could be dcme to rescue this 
hapless duld, and bring him to the know- 
ledge of the one true God. But it must needs 
be a work of time and patience, so he took 
up his quarters in the town, and by-and-by 
managed to attract the boy's notice. He 
turned out to be wild, headstrong, and pas- 
sionate to a degree, that sometimes frightened 
the Rabbi, and made him almost despair of 
the good work that he had taken in hand. 
Litde by Uttle, however, he succeeded io 
weaning him from his bad companions in the 
streets, and very slowly and wearily he taught 
him the earliest rudiments of sacred know- 
ledge. It was a task that none but a heart 
sustained by divine love could hope to cany 
to a successful issue. And so for long loooti^ 

Digitized by VjO . 



FROM MY NOTE-BOOK. 



207 



Rabbi Khiva hoped and waited. He thought 
he saw some q>arks of nobler promise in his 
intractable pupil's mind, and his patient 
trustfulness was not destined to be disap- 
pointed. First all the lad was induced to 
submit to circumdsion. Then be seemed to 
take pleasure in accompanying his teacher to 
the synagogue, and be^n to learn some 
simple prayers, which the good Rabbi heard 
him repeat every day. 

Years had now passed, and Rabbi Khiva 
was making preparations for returning to his 
native town, when in a vision of the night he 
saw the same wood-carrier who had so 
strangely appeared to him in days gone by. 
But the &shion of his face was altered, and 



the Rabbi noticed with delight that he had 
lost his look of frightened anguish, and that 
he now walked erect His load was gone. 

" Yes, I am free at last," he said, in answer 
to the Rabbi's wimdering gaze; ''eternal 
thanks to you — ^for the prayers wmch you so 
patiently taught my son have delivered me." 

It was " the Kaddish " which Rabbi Kliiva 
had taught his young pupil, and indeed had 
specially composed for his use. And now its 
virtue had received the attestation of a spirit 
from the other world! What more was 
needed to proclaim its efficacy ? From that 
day forward it became an ordinance in Israel 
that sons should dutifully redte it for the con- 
solation and reUef of their departed parents. 



FROM MY NOTE-BOOK. 



n. 



IN an argument two reasons generally 
strengthen ; in an illustration, two figures 
generally weaken. Why ? Because, when 
the understanding sees a thing clearly, the 
additional e3q)lanation by illustration wearies 
and darkens; but, though the reason is 
alreacty convinced, every additional ground 
of belief widens &e spiritual horizon. 

"Grave sweet melody," Psalm xcii., Scot- 
tish version. It is such music as reminds 
one of the saying that " an expression of 
serious tenderness is the family likeness of 
the children of God." 



A field of wheat at an early stage of its 
growth is seen pining and yellowing as if it 
were about to die. It is at the particular 
time when the plant iias extracted all the 
nourishment from the decaying seed-grain at 
the root, and has not yet established its own 
connection with the soil. The fanners in 
Scotland call it thcsfiafuir^g-drasA — ^in English, 
itrswamtagsidiMss. It seems a law that every 
decided progress in ii^ure or in man should 
have a crisis of this kind — no change to a 
higher form of life without a temporary 
reverse. The stoning of a peach, the denti- 
tion of a child, tells of iL Is not death itself 
our weaning skkness f 

If our eyesight were microscopic, we could 
not enjoy the most common things around 
us. We are indebted to our defect of vision 
as wdl as to our possession of it. Blindness i 



to the little fauhs of those about us in the 
social and &mily circle is as necessary. 
Some have it by a natural obtuseness, some 
by an overweening partiality. To some it 
comes by the habit of constant association, and 
to others, from seeing that the little faults are 
connected with higher excellences. When we 
have arrived at it in this last way, and the 
faults, or rather foibles, do not touch the 
moral nature, it k best for us to let our cri- 
tical facohy slumber fox the small sad near, 
and keep it wakeful far more important 
things— " fallii^ into a trance, but having 
our eyes open." 

Friendswill not believe you love them if you 
constantly remind them of dieir little &ults. 
Parents, above all others, have the privilege 
with tiieir children ; but they, too, should 
use it 80 as " not to xnovoke them to wxath." 



Some mmds suffer from rough contact with 
the world as does the bloom of a peach. 
Cowper is a type of them. Othere are im- 
proved like a stone in which the finest veins 
lie hidden till friction brings them into view. 
We should L>e careful how we bandk natures 
till we know s<xnething <tf tiieir constitatton. 



What is wanted for grai^ nurative is not 
many details, but cAaracteristu ones, and room 
for die imagination to fill up the rest Some 
perfect tiiemsslves in this study, bat num- 
bers of uneducated men have it by a natural 
tact So the old national ballads l^ve it, and 
in a higher sphere ^^D^S.gJ^t^^B iC 



3o8 



SUNDAY MAGAZINE. 



models to some of the Bible narratives ; so 
brief, yet so endlessly suggestive to the fancy 
and heart, no less than to the spirit. The 
inspiration of the substance would have been 
imperfect without this care of the form. 



" ' Thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine 
head and wash thy face.* Is not this to be 
guilty of feigning equally with the Pharisees, 
only on the other side?" Answer. There is a 
difference between concealing what we feel, 
and pretending to feel what we do not. The 
Latins made a distinction between dissimula- 
tion and simulation^ though we have nearly 
lost it. Not to parade Uie possession of a 
virtue is Christian, to assume its appearance 
is Pharisaic. A man may use a veil; he 
should never wear a mask. 



Thiere is a pride of the Pharisee in liis 
fancied virtue ; there is sometimes a pride of 
the pubKcan in bis open sin— proud that he 
is no hypocrite. 

There is also a prodigal pride, not uncom- 
mon in our day, which brings itself to misery, 
and expects to be caressed for its spiritual 
sores as well as for its rags. If any one is 
too proud to abhor his sin, he has not taken 
the first step' of return. The son had done 
the work of self-reproach, and therefore the 
father spared it : " He came to himself/' and 
then he came to his father. 



The moral responsibility of man lies be- 
tween these two positions: — i. There is 
always a possibihty of resisting the evidence 
of spiritual truth; and yet, 2. The truth is 
presented in such a way that the rejecter of 
it shall feel himself at last to be without ex- 
cuse. If the evident^, in itself> were ine- 
sistible, man would not be &te ; if the 
evidence were not enough, man would not 
be accountable. 

"But enough^ Who is to measure this 
quantity?" Answer. Not any man judging for 
another, nor any man malung the demand 
for himself. It is God's judging for us all, 
and at last each man judging hinself in God's 
light Our duty, meanwhile, is to act up to 
our own light and conviction, and to bring 
these as strongly as we can before our fellow- 
men, with all the strength of reason and all 
the earnestness of lore, being witnesses to 
them, but not judges. 



If I do not witntss to my fellow-men, I am 
wanting in love to them. If I Judge them, I 
am also wanting in love to them. 



One of the great things in art, and in prac- 
tical life, is to know when a thing is com- 
plete. Over-doing is oftra as bad as under- 
doing. In practicid life we must do our best, 
and move on, "leanng the things that are 
behind." 



The presence of sin in the world is one 
of the greEOest prw^ of the falsity of Pan- 
theism. The conscience of man recoils from 
the thou£^t that sin can be divine — a part of 
God. To escape this, some Pantheists have 
tried to make sin not a positive evil, but 
simply negative, like a vacuum in space, not 
yet filled up. But neither will die conscience 
admit this. Self-reproach and remorse are 
felt to be too real and positive ; and disease, 
suffering, death — these outside shadows of sin 
—come to strengthen our conviction that sin 
is only evil continually. Thus, but l<at sin, 
there would have been no Pantheian] and 
yet sin contains the strongest testimony against 
it. *' Out of the eater comes forth meaL" 



" Tempted in all points like as we are, yet 
withmt sin." It might seem as if the sinless- 
ness of Christ deprived Him of that capacity 
of sympathy which the apostle represents 
Htm as possessed oC How can He who is 
sinless feel with sinners ? And yet it is sin 
which more than aught else blunts the tender 
edge of sympathy, whereas sinlessness which 
has struggled with temptation gains power to 
understand it, without losing sensitiveness to 
feel "Tempted in all points?" But are there 
not infinite varieties ot trial in vhich we are 
placed which have no exact pazallel in the 
life of Christ? It is true; but the soul of 
man through one experience can transfer 
itself into many. A ^eat poet, through the 
humanity that is in him, can realise endless 
types of humanity. 

" Childiea— I iMira loct one, 
Bvt nj mm'» mund mj owa litOa toa ; 
And love kaom the hctm of grie£" 

Christ, through his human experience, has 
infinite powers of such realisation. In regard 
to sin, He took upon Him all connected with 
it, €X(^t that whuh weuid have unfiited Hi^ 
for b^ng our Satmur — a» Mtttal parii^Uim 



tn sm. 



JOHM- KER. 

Digitized by VjQQ^ 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 



I.— HOME NOTES. 

X0CE3 AHKAD. 

'TPHERE are maoy interestiog things about Ifr. W. 

R. Greg, wbo, in a publicatioD bearing the title 
of "Rodcs Ahead, or the Warnings of Cassandra," 
has lately been taisiDg the alarm that oar country is 
going to destmction. When a manu